




- 

-» 4 V • 

• >s ^ ^<y ^ 

<v. -'o**^** ^ s’ "<< 

% "\^'" r''‘%\ 0°'^ °o j-i-'*' ‘•‘"’ 

*»»<■’ ,«*■ - 'i'- *♦•’• -. <5‘. 





’ ,%’ "'i' ' " ’ ^^ 

v ^ ^ »■ 6^ 5^ • A^ '' 



■> ^ 'Cok • 

C . '“> • ‘ ’ * *' ■ - 







O ^ h 


: ^y 'jjk 

^ .r % 



^oV 


o 4 ^' ^ 

ioj^ Cy *0 ^ ^ 

^ *"’• aO 

V' f '* • ®/r C' 

D ® <5 ® ' 

'« O 





-0^ c ® " ® 








"onO- 


ff I s 



•* 'Tv^/O * 




vr - - ^V ’’ 'o • A 


* c.^ '^n 

■* • 

4 .4^ ^ '»r^i' 



* ^(y '.*5 


<r. 



.0 'O. 



; '^K 





. J *' o n'o ® 

A? ^ 


K' iP .,, 

.0 "^ '» . . o » V 

kP ‘i.;«L'‘ ■?■ v^ 

* -niiik^ . 'K^ aV r 

C, '<*'v ^ 

0 ^ ^ A tf. .0^ ^ 

“’- '^’^0* :‘'^®.' "^bv^ •''^^^'- ’^■^0^ . 

* ^//radr '’ ^ ’V*. .1^ \ 

^> % *'cho‘> ^ 

H t * o^ 5 ^ A ^ vT' *0 

■ »^V/J,.<- -=?•„ c.-^ «<. »^Va.«, 

. 4^“^% ^ 

4 <iy 


r ’t 


£^o ^ ^ 








o 

o A^’^ O 

,♦ <y ^ 

W> A^ * 

: -^0^ : 

• *0n*. 4 O. ,► 





«A^ , t ' » ^ 

'- 4 .^ »i . , 

" '»b ‘ ^ 


4 O * 



4 








-.i ^ VI' 

0«0 '* aV , °*‘ ^ 

■ V C ■» o AV *•■'»- rvV n H a 

• «-C\vV\.-^^ V? »JS^ ^ /v'Jrf ^ .-jN, ^ O A'' 

'. '^o^ •*b’^ 




\0 v^i 
V ^ 


#- ^ <L^ o ^ ^0 ^ 

% " 0 '^ y ^•’ ^.0 

A*^^ V C\ *0^ 



> . 






o 

^V^ 

‘ • 4 .'^ 

a\'' 'o,^* 

» 'MIM^.-- ^-p.A 


• s ^ 


< 

-- •' <L^^ O ‘*‘^^*' 0 ^ ' 

^ ^ “ a'*’^ ... -?> 


** « 


V -!.•.»- O. 4 > . ^ . W <■!.•_' '< 


A® ' 

** /%. 

0’^ '••'V'' 





* ^ *-» W 

* o S 

r\» ft ^ o _ 


err /, 



«* 4 "JV 


'oK 


.* 

<> 'O^* A '* « 0 ^ 

i* 0 ^ & ®J!!L® 

A r\'^ 



« • O, 


* <^///\}^ '• * 

*^0 o'^ 

°- 4 . ’‘' a” ^ 

• viV 

- •^w'^'' .V h’o * 

■ ^ ■»: 




. K • « ° ' * 


(•‘i) 

'“Ca * 
•'T '' 


^ «* \ 

‘'•.‘I* ^ 0 ’ __ 

A ^ A*»^ V ^ r ^ 


o 

♦ ^ O 




r c <’.'! ° ♦ 



^ ^jU A> O A05^lLr^ <* ^ 




lO v*. 


< 

» 



A YOUNG DISCIPLE, 


A NOVEL. 




■■ n 




Bond Stbsbt. 


Copyright, 1882 . 

By W. B. Smith & Co., New York. 
All Bights Beseryed. 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


CHAPTER I. 

ONE CAN INFER THAT THE MILKMAN HIMSELF SOME- 
TIMES SOURS THE MILK. 

A QUIET New England village — a sober, orderly, Sabbath - 
keeping place. No shrieking whistles, no din of machinery, 
no clang of factory-bells ; nor any hum of industry disturb- 
ing the lazy stillness of long summer days. When the leaves 
have fallen the neat frame cottages of the central streets are 
seen in all their rectangular uniformity, and comfortable 
farm-houses appear at short intervals along the roads of the 
surrounding country. But in summer, cottage and farm- 
house alike are almost hidden by the dense foliage of stately 
maples and huge elms. Through the village a limpid stream 
takes its course, widening into three or four successive ponds, 
and tumbling in silvery cascades over as many mill-dams, 
before it falls into the shallow harbor. The Wepawaug we 
may call it, for thus was it named by the tribe whose only 
relics are the arrow-heads of flint found on its banks. In 
the heart of the village, on either side of the stream, and 
nearly opposite where it is spanned by a white wooden 
bridge, stand two white wooden churches, lifting their tall 
steeples far above the trees. One summer day the clock 
on one of the churches had just struck twelve. The windows 
and doors of the edifice were open, and the railing that en- 
closed it was decked with its usual Sabbath ornament, — a 
parti-colored, ragged fringe of decrepit horses and infirm 
vehicles. Regular church-goers were those aged animals. 
But to their ears the preacher’s voice conveyed no tidings of 
peace, and upon each other they wreaked unchristian spite, 

3 


4 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


provoking many a sudden, unearthly scream, which echoed 
strangely, as in brute protest, through the sanctuary, and 
which ought to have discouraged even the brazen-voiced 
chorister. As the congregation poured out of the three front 
doors the young men formed in parallel lines, between which 
young women ran the gauntlet of admiring eyes, tripping 
along with sly, coquettish glances, or with demure faces that 
vainly strove to hide a consciousness of their simple finery. 
Those who lived near hastened home, while the farmers, who 
for the most part came from a distance, met in the shade of 
neighboring lanes, bolding caucuses and informal town-meet- 
ings while they ate their luncheon. But the children were 
assembled in the Sabbath-school, to feed, as Deacon Biggot 
told them, on the milk of the gospel. 

A great reputation for sanctity had Deacon Biggot. Far 
and near throughout that region he was known as a fin- 
ished product of the prevailing faith, and the most zeal- 
ous expounder of the laws of God. And this reputation 
he was wont to maintain by various expressive movements 
of the eyes and facial muscles, by an eloquent swaying 
of head and body, by a peculiar quaver of the voice, 
and by a certain gasping and panting, suggestive of 
dreadful conflicts with the powers of darkness. No one 
was better acquainted with the devious paths whereby 
the Adversary leads youthful feet to his broad highway, 
and quite alert be seemed that Sabbath noon, as he stood 
facing his class, solemnly wagging his head, rocking 
and panting with excessive, though humble, righteousness. 
Of the seven or eight boys in front of him not more than 
two would have attracted a moment’s notice. One was Dan 
Babbon. His robust form, his bold, frank face, and the 
latent passions that slumbered in his wide and piercing black 
eyes, at once marked him the leader of his companions. 
Next to him, packed into one corner of the pew, sat a special 
charge of the deacon’s. All that was known of his origin 
was that he came from New York; — that the Five Points 
Mission had rescued him from some gutter in the metropolis, 
and that Deacon Biggot had undertaken to rear and educate 
him. He was called Jackedo; but, having frequently heard 
him pronounced a firebrand of sin, the boys had nicknamed 
him the Brand. 


MILK WHICH MAY' PROVE UNWHOLESOME, 


5 


“Now, dear children,” said good Deacon Biggot, “you 
may repeat your verses. Jackedo, begin ! ” 

“And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,” whined the 
Brand. 

“The next,” said the deacon. 

“And the Lord spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, say- 
ing,” shouted Dan. 

Clearly, short texts were in favor among those pupils. 

“And Moses spake unto the Lord, saying,” drawled 
another, with guttural indifference. 

“The next !” 

“One kid of the goats for a sin-offering,” piped' a shrill 
treble ; and so on, to the model boy at the head of the class, 
who was famous for long verses and difficult patronymics, 
and who delivered with eager emphasis the passage, “ AVhich 
was the son of Cainan, which was the son of Arphaxad, 
which was the son of Sem, which was the son of Noe, which 
was the son of Lamech ! ” and, as he concluded, mod,est 
worth mantled his cheek, under the deacon’s approving 
smile. 

After each pupil had recited his paragraph it was the good 
man’s custom to relate parables, and entertaining allegories 
about good little boys who died and went to heaven, and bad 
little boys who died and did not go to heaven, or* who, if 
they yet survived, would not go thither when they should die. 
And the most familiar, as well as the most melancholy, ex- 
ample of the latter class was the luckless Brand. He had 
been thoroughly frightened at his own hopeless depravity as 
revealed by the deacon. Many a time had his teeth chat- 
tered to hear that quavering voice descanting upon his future 
criminal career. He knew the terrors of being propped un- 
der the chin, and gasped at, and panted at, with the exclama- 
tion, “Oh! how shall this brand be plucked from the burn- 
ing I How shall I rescue this little lamb from the prowling 
wolves, j^ea from the roaring lion that seeketh to devour 
him!” The time had been when he brooded all day long 
upon his desperate condition, and often, at night, when he 
crept away to his bed in the deacon’s hay-loft, he had prayed 
to be saved from the wolves and the lion. Sometimes, when 
the rats i-ustled through the hay, or the branches of the old 
willow swept across the roof, he thought the wolves were 


6 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


coming, and thrusting his fingers into his ears, would bury his 
head under the horse-blanket that covered him, and tremble 
through hours of agony. But these oft-repeated terrors* 
had lost their power, and now, except when forced to 
reply, the Brand received his religious instruction in dogged 
silence. 

On the present occasion the deacon enumerated the privi- 
leges his pupils enjoyed, reminding them that they could go 
to church and hear the minister preach, and to Sabbath- 
school where they learned to be good boys, then to church 
again in the afternoon. After that, they could study the 
catechism and the Bible all the rest of the day. But little 
heathen boys had no church nor Sabbath-school, no beautiful 
catechism to study and no Bible to read. And the faces of 
all, except the model, expressed a silent but unalterable con- 
viction that the advantage was wholly with the sons of 
heathen parents, and that they also would like to be little 
heathen boys every Sunday. The deacon’s favorite method 
was to stop, occasionally, with an initial letter or syllable and 
permit his pupils to supply the rest of the word, thereby 
lending to his discom’se the attractions of a riddle, and rous- 
ing an emulous interest in his parables. 

“My dear children,” said he, “I was reading to-day about 
a litte Hindoo-oo — ” Here he paused and turned his eyes 
inquiringly along the row. 

“ Hindoo-stan ? ” shouted a young geographer. 

“No,” replied the deacon. 

‘‘ — Koosh ! ” vocifei-ated the youngster. 

“Not at all,” the deacon answered, in a voice that was 
instantly withering to full-blown enthusiasm ; “ Not Hindu- 
stan nor Hindoo-Koosh, but a yquthful Hindoo-oo-oo — ” 

“Boy ! ” cried the model. 

“Well, dear children,” continued the deacon, “this 
little Hindoo boy had no Holy B — ” 

“ — iggot!” surmised one, with unparalled audacity, 
which, being unsupported by the expected grins of his com- 
panions, gave way to deep contrition, while the model 
shouted, 

“Bible!” 

Rewarding successful endeavor by a smile of holy appro- 
bation, the deacon resumed, “And, because the heathen 


MILK WHICH MAY PROVE UNWHOLESOME. 


7 


parents of that poor Hindoo youth knew not the Bible, they 
gave him up to be devoured by a c-r-r — ” 

— ocodile ! ” screamed the eager, deafening chorus. But • 
how it happened that the little Hindoo was surrendered to a 
crocodile the class never knew. A prolonged snore from the 
Slumbering Brand drew the attention of the deacon to that 
unfortunate youth, and at once put a period to the history of 
the young pagan. Reaching over to the culprit the good 
man shook him wide awake,, and then fixing him with his 
eyes remarked, “Once there was a little sinful b — ” 

“ — utterfly ! ” suggested the wary Brand, reluctant to as- 
sist at the anticipated defamation of his own character. The 
deacon made no reply. 

‘ ‘ — ull-dog ? ’ ’ inquired J ackedo.^ 

But the deacon, eyeing him more sternly, repeated in 
measured tones, “ Once there was a little sinful b — ” 

“ — oy,” confessed Jackedo. 

“And his name was J — ” 

“ — oseph I ” asserted the Brand, in a very cheerful and 
positive voice. 

The deacon maintained a goading silence. 

— ames ! ” declared Jackedo, more cheerful and positive 
than before. The deacon, with a warning gesture, slowly 
repeated, “ His name was J — ” 

Winking fast, and knocking his fist against his forehead, 
the other expressed by pantomime desperate efforts to supply 
the required syllables. The deacon glared steadily at him 
and once more repeated, “ His name was J — ” 

But the wretched Brand clutched his shock of hair and 
still held out, framing a silent “ Jackedo” with his lips, and 
never taking his eyes off the deacon’s. It was plain that he 
found his milk unpalatable. Rebellious his spirit was, obvi- 
ously, and his demeanor mutinous, — a spirit which must be 
nipped in the bud, repressed, crushed. The good man ex- 
tended his right arm towards the urchin’s face, with his 
thumb and index-finger fashioned into a pair of tweezers, 
which settled upon his nose in a firm clasp. Then, in a tone 
of concentrated emphasis, he said, “There was once a little 
sinful boy — ’ ’ 

The hapless but resolute Brand tore his hair, and pummeled 
his forehead, while he looked cross-eyed upon the tweezers 


8 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


and opened his mouth for breath, but not a word would he 
speak. With a wrench of his wrist the deacon continued, 
“ And his name was J — ” 

u — ackedo ! ” twanged the Brand, like a cracked bell, 
while his instructor removed the tweezers, remarking, “Yes, 
his name was Jackedo.” 

And, thereafter, the dialogue proceeded more smoothly, 
thus : 

“ Alas ! he was a little sco — ’’ 

“ — orner ! ” 

“He was a Sabbath — ’’ 

“ — breaker ! ” 

“He was st — ” 

“ — iff-necked ! ” 

“And f-r-r— ” 

“ — oward ! ” 

“ He was, alas ! a fl — ** 

“ — inty-hearted boy ! ’’ 

“And a ch— ’’ 

“ — ild o’ Satan ! ” 

And so on, till the young disciple had described a future 
career of villainy, a rapid journey to the gallows, and a final 
plunge into a lake of burning brimstone. After this exercise 
came the distribution of the Sabbath-school books ; and five 
or six, who had listened with bated breath to hear their 
teacher begin the history of some other little fiend, whose 
name might be Henry, or Charles? or John, exchanged silent 
but heart-felt congratulations. Enraptured by the thrilling 
wood-cut of a savage, with war-paint, tomahawk, and scalp- 
ing-knife, all complete, the Brand chose the “Life of Daniel 
Boone.” But the deacon speedily confiscated his prize and 
replaced it by “ Dying Thoughts.” 

“I’d ruther have the other one,” pleaded the sorrowful 
Brand, hardly keeping back his tears, as the tomahawk and 
the knife disappeared. But the good deacon, regarding him 
with a reproachful eye, moaned, “ Oh, the depravity of this 
stony little heart ! Behold how it cleaveth to idle tales ; be- 
hold how it lusteth after them ! Oh, for the hammer and the 
fire to break in pieces this flinty heart ; and to make this little 
Gallio care for sacred things ! ’ ’ 

The voices of the children in other classes now joined in 


MILK WHICH MAY PROVE UNWHOLESOME. D 

the closing hymn, for the lank sexton could be seen through 
the window behind the pulpit, straining at the bell-rope, and 
hanging thereon like a slim tassel, as the recoil of the wheel 
lifted him towards the ceiling. At the summons the farmers 
broke up their caucuses and town -meetings in neighboring 
lanes, and loitered back to the church in idle, awkward groups, 
with stooping shoulders and the same heavy, plodding gait 
with which they were wont to follow the plow. The people 
thronged to their seats and the reverend Mr. Jonquil walked 
sedately in, with his beaming, jolly countenance, his chin- 
bandage of white whisker and halo of white hair. Behind 
him came the ’squire — a justice of the peace 'and a man of 
mark — his temples shaved, to give greater breadth and a 
more intellectual look to his forehead marching up the central 
aisle with an air that told of cares of State. And, last of all, 
the doctor trundled himself in, with a confidential twinkle in 
his eye, as befitted the custodian of family secrets. The 
afternoon was sultry. Clad in their black broad-cloth Sun- 
day suits, the burly farmers turned back their cuffs and fre- 
quently mopped their faces, while their jaded wives jaded 
themselves still more with palm-leaf fans. Young men with 
unctuous hair, submitting their necks patientl}^ to the yoke 
of galling collars, and to the halter of uncomfortable but 
distinguishing knots of gingham, cast roving, bashful glances 
at the girls, and, at times, slyly arranged their stubborn 
love-locks b}^ help of pocket mirrors concealed in their broad 
palms. In the gallery small boys gambled for pins, bartered 
jack-knives, and banqueted upon pea-nuts with impunity, for 
ithe tithing-man, who was also sexton, was exhausted by toil 
at the bell and his vigilance was asleep. Argus-eyed old 
women sweltered in corner seats and browsed upon sprigs of 
fennel, noting particularly the behavior of such young foliis 
as were reported to be “ keeping steady company.” And in 
one corner of Deacon Biggot’s pew sat Jackedo, reflecting 
upon that day’s instruction in the Sabbath-school. The ob- 
scurity of his origin had been somewhat cleared, long ago, 
by the information that he was a child of Satan, and he was 
accustomed to being stigmatized as a firebrand of sin. But 
that day, for the first time, he had been called a Gallio. He 
wondered what that could be, and vaguely imagined that it 
was something connected with the gallows, where he was 


10 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


destined to hang, some day, as he had been often told. At 
any rate, he was sure that a Gallio was something infernally 
wicked and detestable, or tlie deacon would never have called 
him that. As he thought of his moral monstrosity, under its 
various names, some dim perception of incongruity dawned 
upon him, and he whispered to himself, “Wot a gay thing I 
must be, anyhow ! ” 

He wondered whether there were any other little firebrands 
of sin, and began to suspect that the Pope was a full-grown 
Gallio. He wished that he was as great as the Pope, and 
then if “Old Big-gut” wanted to call him a Gallio he’d just 
like to have him try it on ; that was all. He’d bet some- 
thing precious he wouldn’t do it but once ; and a gleam of 
triumph crossed his face. Perhaps Judas Iscariot and Pon- 
tius Pilate were firebrands of sin, he thought, and, to shake 
off his sense of wretchedness, he watched awhile the colors 
of the spectrum thrown on the wall by the glass pendants of 
the lamps ; and when that resource failed, he counted the 
small, white, wooden discs that were glued to the ceiling by 
way of ornament, like satellites revolving around a centre- 
piece from which was suspended the chandelier; He wished 
that each one weighed several tons, and that some super- 
natural power would send them hailing down upon Deacon 
Biggot’s head. Then he counted the panes of glass, com- 
paring them, in number and smoothness, to the bald crowns 
within the restricted limits of his vision, and had made good 
progress with the innumerable warts upon his fingers, when 
Mr. Jonquil delivered his final thwack on the sacred desk, 
and bent upon the congregation the impressive stare which 
usually followed and emphasized the application of his sub- 
ject. The last hymn was sung and the palm-leaf fans were 
laid away to their six-days rest. The trade in knives and 
the feasting upon pea-nuts were ended, the young swains 
exchanged parting glances with the giddy objects of their 
adoration, and the residue of fennel was stored in the pock- 
ets of the argus-eyed old ladies. A cough of relief spread 
through the assembly and presently they thronged out. 
Then, from the railing was unravelled its ragged fringe, and 
the lazy horses took their way with their loads to the dis- 
tant farm-houses. But Deacon Biggot walked off towards 
home, with long strides, while the Brand trotted by his 


MILK WHICH MAY PROVE UNWHOLESOME. 


11 


side, silently counting the marbles in his pocket in this 
wise : 

“One an’ one is cloubs. Doubs an’ one is thribs. Thribs 
an’ one is fobs. Fobs an’ one is fibs.” 

But his computations were interrupted by the deacon. 
The good man’s exordium was usually gentle. 

“My child,” said he, “have you enjoyed the privileges of 
this blessed Sabbath?” 

“Yes, sir; wery much,” replied the Brand. 

“Have you treasured up the precious truths that fell from 
the lips of our beloved pastor?” 

“Just the best I knowed how,” replied the Brand, more 
doubtfully than before, and suspecting that the deacon was 
digging a pitfall, he silently resumed, “Fobs an’ one is fibs.” 

“You may repeat the text,” said the deacon. 

“Didn’t our heart burn within us while he talked with us 
by the wa}^” returned the Brand, with a warm appreciation 
of the subject, and a triumphant sense of bridging the pitfall. 

“Very good,” was the deacon’s answ’er. “And has that 
little flinty heart of thine ever burned within thee, to hear 
the Scriptures unfolded?” 

“Yes, s^r,” the Brand emphatically declared. 

“What were your feelings at such times?” pursued the 
holy man. The Brand faltered, perceiving a chasm ahead, 
and in distracted silence decided, “Twice doubs make one 
fobs.” 

And then, tapping his bosom with hopeful ingenuity, he 
replied, “Awful hot right here, — just like a coal, — stinging 
away like everything.” 

That’s the way 3^011 felt, is it?” demanded the deacon, 
gasping with anger. 

“ P’r’aps not quite so hot as a coal,” the trembling Brand 
hastily admitted, “but ruther warm, anyway.” 

The deacon glared steadfastly at his companion, and, with 
a gesture of holy abomination, exclaimed, “Oh, this genera- 
tion of — ” 

“Wipers!” responded the ready Brand, rejoicing in a 
theme where he could display proficiency. A silence ensued, 
during which the boy counted several hundred crickets and 
grasshoppers, and which was abruptly terminated by the 
deacon. 


12 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Now we’ll try the morning,” said he, with an air of 
serving up new refreshments. “ Jackedo, what w'as the text 
this morning 9 ’ ’ 

The Brand reflected, clutched his hair and, seeing’ no way 
to escape the abyss, plunged recklessly in by answering, 
“Which was the sou of — sou of — ” and halted there in 
sheer despair. The good man steadily regarded him with a 
beneficent smile which seemed full of encouragement, while, 
in his blandest voice, he said, “Jackedo, I desire you to re- 
peat the text.” 

Far from being encouraged by that beneflcent smile, the 
little wretch seemed suddenly withered, as if smitten by a 
simoon . 

“Oh, dear me!” he whined; “1 remember it just as 
plain now ; but I can’t fetch it out, cos I keep thinking son- 
of-a-gun all the time.” 

Son of a gun I ” panted the deacon, almost overwhelmed 
with this fresh evidence of depravity. Then, with uplifted 
hands, he moaned, “Oh for a shower from on high, to melt 
this stony heart and to quench this firebrand of sin 1 ” 

But, making a speedy and spiteful recovery, he grasped 
the little Firebrand by the collar and, as if despairing of the 
shower from above, succeeded, without heavy tax upon his 
own quenching powers, in nearly extinguishing him by main 
force. And, when he had finished, the young disciple’s 
appearance indicated that if he had not met with a shower 
he certainly had been tossed about in a hurricane. Sobbing, 
and counting faster than ever, and forming a score of plans 
for a future bloody revenge, the Brand trotted on by his guar- 
dian’s side till they reached the deacon’s house. Then the 
rest of the afternoon was devoted to the catechism, and after 
that Jackedo was sent to bring the cows home from the 
pasture. 


JOHN BABB ON AT HOME, 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

JOHN BABBON AT HOME. 

John Babbon’s dwelling was a home of plenty, if not always 
the abode of domestic peace. It was a spacious country- 
house of modern style, with ample, well-kept grounds, the 
whole wearing a look of easy comfort that betokened the 
owner’s prosperity. Successful in business, he had retired 
in middle life. But native force would not permit him to 
rust in idleness, and in the excitement of speculative enter- 
prise he found an agreeable stimulus. On him, indolence 
had been given no opportunity to develop a bulbous trunk at 
the expense of locomotive organs, nor could any trace of 
vicious habits be discovered in his clear, sanguine counten- 
ance. 

Above the middle height, and of a symmetrical, athletic 
tigure, he was still in his prime. His wife, also, was of a 
good figure, with a pale, oval face whose distinguishing 
characteristic was the large, piercing eyes. Black and glit- 
tering they were, as polished jet. She was devoted to her 
religion, and unconscious that certain austere yloctriues had 
cast an obscuring shadow over her natural vivacity. The 
nervous temperament she inherited, but her fretful temper 
she owed to her sombre faith ; and of modifying the one or 
controlling the other she had relinquished all hope. Her 
nervous system acted like an alarm-clock, whose mainspring 
the slightest displeasure was suflficient to wind up ; and, 
when wound up, the least thing could start it running down. 
She knew her infirmity well, and against it she had 
battled. 

Nostrums without number had she tried, swallowing mis- 
named Pleasant Pellets, Magic Pills, and deceitful Nerve- 
regulators, with that blind belief in quackery which not 
infrequently goes hand in hand with an abiding religious 
faith. But the Pleasant Pellets proved dangerous, like ran- 
dom shots in the dark ; the pills and the regulators exploded 


14 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


unseasonably, and with unforeseen violence, doing every- 
thing that drugs could do without crippling or killing, aud‘ 
yet the malady was in no wise abated. Her husband had 
tried his skill, and failed disastrously. But there were 
certain books and periodicals, such as the Sainfs Rest 
and the Missionary Herald.^ that possessed a soothing 
power, and by their help she now and then warded off a 
paroxysm . 

That Sunday afternoon, John Babbon, in his fitting-room, 
with his spectacles awry upon his nose, and the New York 
Observer crumpled upon his knees, was dozing in his arm- 
chair. His wife sat opposite, with Pilgrim’s Progress in 
her hand, secretly mourning over his unregenerate condition, 
and comparing him to Mr. Worldly Wiseman. But the 
monotonous ticking of the clock, which exercised a drowsy 
enchantment over her husband, was gradually winding her 
nervous system to a painful tension. The Pilgrim’s Progress 
was an excellent antidote, but it never could counteract that 
hectoring pendulum. Mrs. Babbon tapped with her foot on 
the floor. She sought the cook in the kitchen ; but that pru- 
dent maid had secreted herself. She even went on a tour of 
inspection among her well-beloved poultry ; but, when she 
returned to her seat, the clock was still ticking as spitefully 
as ever, and, more intolerable yet, her husband greeted her 
with an exasperating snore. There was a brief inward 
struggle, and then, in a low, staccato voice, the fretful wife 
exclaimed : 

‘ ‘ Mr. Babbon ! ’ ’ 

At such times she never spoke loud, but in her tone there 
was a peculiar pungency — a penetrating, stinging power — 
quite effectual to arouse her husband from the soundest 
sleep. He was instantly wide awake. His glasses rattled 
down upon his paper and the paper rustled down to the 
floor, while he started up, mildly inquiring, ‘^What is it, 
my dear?” 

“Mr. Babbon, are you going to sit slumbering aw^ay this 
blessed, livelong Sabbath? Are you willing to sit there, in 
that chair, and sleep away your immortal soul? The heed- 
less fool cries, ‘ Soul, take thine ease ; have a little more 
slumber ; yet a little folding of the hands to sleep ! ’ but are 
you icilling to risk it ? ” 


JOHN BAB BON AT HOME. 13 

Mr. Babbon vainly strove to assert that he was not, never 
had been, and never would be, so inclined. 

‘‘Are you to sit there,” continued Mrs. Babbon, “dream- 
ing and dreaming of piling up riches, when you are heaping 
up mountains of eternal wrath? Are you content to do 
that? ” 

Her husband again vainly essayed to declare that he was 
not content. 

“I am grieved and amazed,” she kept on. “What shall 
it profit you if you gain the whole world and lose your own 
poor soul ? ^ Answer me, if you please ! What will you 
profit by it ? ” 

Casting about for a conciliatory reply, Mr. Babbon thought 
of, and answered, “Nothing.” 

“Well then,” resumed Mrs. Babbon, with a triumphant 
air of wrenching from him a reluctant admission, “don’t 
you think it w^ould be wise to spend some part of these 
sacred hours in looking after your eternal interests, instead 
of dreaming about the vile dross of this world?” 

Instantly repudiating the necessity of being wrenched, by 
open confession, Mr Babbon replied : 

“Most assuredly, my dear, and I always made it a point 
to pursue that very course.” 

“Mr. Babbon! ” his astounded dear exclaimed, with em- 
phasis that left no room for further discussion, “you don't.’' 

He readjusted his spectacles upon his nose and picked up 
the paper, remarking, aa he looked over the columns : 

“I was reading a very interesting article on foreign mis- 
sions ; I think the subject w^as ‘ More Light for the Punjaub.’ 
Did you see it, my dear? I’d like to read it again.” 

The device was well conceived, for there was reason to be- 
lieve that Mrs. Babbon would find solace in the fact of her 
husband having read an article on foreign missions, and 
soothing joy in the surprising intelligence of his having found 
it so interesting that he desired to read it again. But, 
though well conceived and fairly executed, it failed signally. 

“Why look to the Punjaub?” demanded the agitated 
wife. “I am very sure I know somebody, a great deal 
nearer than the Panjanh^ that needs spiritual labor fully as 
much as the people of that benighted land.” 

“Exactly, my dear; those are my own views, precisely,” 


IG 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Mr. Babbon hurriedly returned. “I’ve always said so. 
What in the world is the use of travelling to the other side 
of the globe to hunt for pagans, when there are heathen 
enough in our own cities to employ all the missionaries that 
ever lived? I want somebody to show me a reason for it. 
AVhat ^ense is there in it? There isn’t any. Dumb foolish- 
ness, — the whole of it ! ” 

Keeping her keen black eyes fastened expressively on her 
husband’s face, Mrs. Babbon sweetly replied : 

‘•I was not thinking particularly of our cities. I am 
quite certain there are proper subjects for a missionary’s 
care to be found in country places.” 

“Not a doubt of it,” Mr. Babbon cheerfully admitted, 
growing somewhat restive under the glittering eyes, “not 
a doubt of it, my dear, — scattered all over the land, — in 
almost every hamlet. Even in our village there may be 
some.” 

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Babbon, in a voice that vibrated 
with grief, and whose emphasis was sufficiently significant ; 
“yes, Mr. Babbon, I think there a?*e.” 

A natural pause occurred and Mr. Babbon began to look 
over the newspaper, apparently in search of More Light for 
the Punjaub, while his wife found a sedative dose in the ex- 
ploits of Mr. Great-heart. But ere long some evil fate 
directed her thoughts once more to the history of Mr. 
Worldly Wiseman, and, with a look of profound dismay, she 
saw her husband’s eyes closed, and his mouth gi-adually 
opening, while his chin approached his bosom by a series of 
sW’t, rapid journeys. 

“There you go again,” she cried, “nodding away this 
blessed Sabbath, and your vagabond son roaming the fields 
like a wild Arab ; — a Bedouin of the Desert. ’ ’ 

Mr. Babbon was instantly roused. 

“ I’ll warrant he is,” he eagerly assented; “exactly like 
a wild Arab, my dear, except that the children of the desert 
usually roam on horseback, I believe, and you know our son 
has no steed.” 

“Don’t quibble ! ” returned Mrs. Babbon, in a voice that 
was hardly audible, so desperately was she struggling to re- 
main calm ; “it makes no difference whether he has or not. 
The point is, he’s roaming the fields when he ought to be 
here, in this chair, reading this blessed book. ” 


JOHN BAB BOX AT HOME. 


17 


Mr. Babbon immediately put on his hat and started out 
to find the truant. He passed through the yard into the 
garden, and, as he stood leaning upon the fence, thinking of 
the sceue he had just left, it occurred to him that it would 
be no undesirable lot to be a wild Arab, and roam in peace 
over the silent desert. He walked up through the orchard, 
climbed the fence, and sauntered up the shady lane that 
bounded one side of his premises, not looking for the bo}^ 
but prolonging his absence, in hope that his wife would be- 
come absorbed in the enlightenment of the Punjaub, or find 
an opportunity of unwinding her nervous spring in the 
kitchen. But in this hope he was disappointed. On his re- 
turn, at the end of an hour, Mrs. Babbon received him with 
a preternatural serenity of countenance which, as he knew 
by veteran experience, was indicative of anything but calm- 
ness of spirit. 

“Here you come,” she wailed, “from your Sunday ramble ; 
and your poor godless boy up-stairs rattling his dice-box. 
Think of it, Mr. Babbon ! That little child rattling a dice- 
box on the Lord’s day ! Isn’t it fine employment for the child 
of a Christian parent? Doesn’t it promise a noble career? 
Isn’t it a comforting thought that our son is growing up an 
expert gamester; yes, a gambler of the — of the — ” 

“Of the rankest sort!” cried Mr. Babbon, with crafty 
sympathy. He saw the culprit sitting in a corner, in penal 
servitude, over a copy of Watts' Hymns^ and, goaded to 
make a diversion in his own favor, quickly collared him. 

“ Dan, how is this? ” he demanded. “ Do you play dice 
on the Sabbath-day?” 

“ No, sir ; not often ; but I did, to-day. ' 

“ Didn’t you know it was wrong? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

‘ ‘ Then what made you ? ’ ’ 

An enigma, beyond the philosophy of any mortal child. 
Dan reflected, as he had often done under similar circum- 
stances, without any satisfactory result, until the puzzling 
question was repeated, and then with sullen candor an- 
swered : 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

The next moment he advanced the obscure but hopeful ex- 
planation : “ I was chucking for sheep and goats. Double- 
sixes win the sheep and double-deuces take the goats.” 


18 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ No evasions ! If you knew it was wrong, why did you 
do it? ” 

“I don’t know, sir,” whimpered Dan, guarding his ears 
the best he could; “only I get so tired of learning hymns 
all day.” 

Counterfeited zeal rather overshot the mark, then and 
there. 

“Come, Mr. Babbon,” interposed the mother, “don’t fly 
at that child like a tiger, — a Bengal tiger of the jungle ! 
He deserves to be corrected, but there’s no need of pound- 
ing his head to a pulp ; and I don’t see any necessity for 
working yourself into a rage either. There’s a medium in 
all things, and a child can be disciplined without being man- 
gled.” 

Mr. Babbon retired to his armchair ; and Mrs. Babbon, after 
having assiduously fomented the boy’s ear with camphor, and 
having remitted the penalty that she had imposed, by substi- 
tuting the New England Primer which was embellished with 
wood-cuts, for TTa^^s’ Hymns which was embellished with noth- 
ing, returned to her seat and sought another sedative com- 
pounded by Bunyan. Dan’s sorrow was speedily assuaged 
by the wood-cuts, and especially by one representing a 
crowned head lurking behind the cornice of a roof, and 
spying at a young matron in a bath, who was supposed to be 
delightfully unconscious of the warm interest which she had 
kindled in the royal bosom. The contemplation of this pic- 
ture afforded him untold amusement ; nor was it long before 
he was busy with his pencil upon certain details which the 
artist had left incomplete. Presently Mr. Babbon crossed 
the room and handed the paper to his wife, remarking, as he 
pointed to one of the columns : 

“There it is, my dear; More Light for the Punjaub ; I 
think you’ll find it very interesting.” 

Mrs. Babbon took the paper and, folding down a leaf at 
the history of Mr. Worldly Wiseman, gave the volume to her 
husband, who accepted it with eager gratitude, and returned 
to his chair looking extremely delighted, as though that were 
the book of all others he most desired to have within range 
of his spectacles. To a superficial observer this proffer of 
the interesting newspaper-article would have seemed an exhi- 
bition of kindly attentiveness toward Mrs. Babbon. But the 


JOHN BAB BON AT HOME. 


19 


superficial observer would have been deceived. Mr. Babbon 
was no inexperienced schemer, in his way, and this was 
simply a piece of domestic strategy. In their house, spas- 
modic attempts at family worship were customary, and to 
that duty Mrs. Babbon held her husband more strictly than 
to any other, although his talents for conducting the exercise 
were in no wise equal to the skill he displayed in avoiding it. 
After breakfast, for three or four successive mornings, the 
Scriptures were read aloud, an incomplete skeleton of a 
stereotyped prayer was rehearsed, and the devotions were 
closed with some gem from the Village Hymns. And then a 
masterly plan of Mr. Babbon ’s would put an end to these 
hallowed exercises for a day or two, or even for a whole 
week, if unusually well contrived. There had been occa- 
sions — memorable days in Mr. Babbon ’s calendar — when he 
had surpassed himself, and weeks had elapsed before his wife 
had worried him back to his duty. The hour before supper, 
however, on Sunday evenings, was always a period difficult 
for successful maneuver. But hopefulness is characteristic 
of the sanguine temperament. Mr. Babbon had carried the 
paper to his wife with the secret expectation that the inter- 
esting subject, “More Light for the Bunjaub,” would lull her 
to forgetfulness until the bell should ring for supper and the 
critical time be past. And Mrs. Babbon did become inter- 
ested. A stirring appeal for more funds to keep the Light 
burning, judiciously underscored by Mr. Babbon, caught her 
eye, and she was presently enraptured by a glowing descrip- 
tion of the harvest awaiting the reapers in that vast field. 
But the strategist, fearful of moving or of making the least 
noise, watched his success, with an occasional glance at the 
clock, whose loud ticking alone disturbed the silence ; and 
Dan, having finished the hitherto imperfect Psalmist, was 
deeply engaged with the figure in the bath. So the hour 
waned, until a false and fatal sense of security crept over 
Mr. Babbon. All thoughts of artifice or of Punjaub were 
banished, and his drowsy head was nodding over the history 
of Mr. W. Wiseman. But his peaceful dreams were destined 
to be cut short, and his hopes doomed to be wrecked. Sud- 
denly the air vibrated with the low but thrilling exclamation : 

“Mr. Babbon!” 

The guilty dreamer bumped his head against the back of 


20 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


his chair, while his eyes flew open, and his mouth closed with 
a snap. 

“ Bless my soul,” he hastily cried, ‘‘ how wonderfully enter- 
taining ! I don’t know when I’ve been so interested in any- 
thing ; especially that slough of Despond. Why, the very 
name is suggestive of mire and stickiness. A perfect alle- 
gory. You can almost see poor Christian, with the mud up 
to his hat-band. John Bunyan was certainly a gifted man. 
Quite remarkable, too, in his station of life ; — a tinker, I 
think, was he not, my dear?” 

Though the delivery of these remarks was animated their 
tone was hollow and unsound. 

“A tinker ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon ; “yes, John Bunyan 
may have been a tinker, but he never spent the blessed 
Lord’s day in slumber, while his poor soul was perishing 
within him. Would that I could see John Babbon a tinker ; 
yes, a toiling tinker, if he could have but a tithe of the Chris- 
tian character John Bunyan had. I would rejoice at the 
spectacle.” 

“ So would I,” cried Mr. Babbon, speaking very fast, and 
trying to fill up as much time as possible with a continuous 
stream of words. “So would I, provided it could be done 
without any material change in domestic affairs. A tinker, 
let me tell you, is by no means to be despised. He may be 
a very worthy man. Not very learned, perhaps, as a rule ; 
in fact, I believe Bunyan himself was, at one time, rather 
illiterate, was he not, my dear ? But, after all, what of it ? 
The fact can’t be disputed, he was a remarkable man. To 
be sure, the general run of tinkers are not what the world 
Q.a\\^. polished men, although they deal in shining wares, but 
it’s of no consequence ; they may be very honest and upright 
citizens for all that. Why shouldn’t a tinker be as respecta- 
ble as anybody ? It’s an honest calling and a useful one, 
too, and on scriptural grounds there was Tubal Cain, a 
mechanic of some sort and, no doubt, a man of repute. By 
the way, what was Tubal’s trade, my dear ?” 

“ Whatever he was,” replied Mrs. Babbon, “you may 
depend he was not a scoffer ; and, whatever you do, don’t 
attempt any covert flings against John Bunyan ! Your sar- 
casm is ill-directed there, Mr. Babbon, — it is but kicking 
against the pricks.” 


JOHN BAB BON AT HOME, 


21 


“ Why, my dear,” expostulated Mr. Babbon ; “ most cer- 
tainly you misunderstand me. I’m the last man in the world 
to kick against the pricks. W'hen I alluded to the fact of 
Bunyan’s being a tinker — 

“Oh dear me! tinker, tinker, tinker!’^ interposed Mrs. 
Babbon, in a tone of distressing surfeit. “I declare it tries 
my nerves exceedingly to hear you keep it ringing like an 
anvil. Once and for all, Mr. Babbon, now and forevermore, 
let me tell you, I hope you’ll drop that everlasting tinker.** 

Mr. Babbon dropped the tinker, forthwith, and was pre- 
paring to take up the Punjaub when his wife demanded in a 
kind of suppressed and bottled-up voice : 

“Mr. Babbon, are we going to gather round the family 
altar, or are we to let it fall in ruins ? ” 

“Why, certainly, my dear,” the defeated strategist re- 
plied, with cheerful alacrity, as though he deemed it a de- 
lightful privilege to gather round the family altar, and as 
though the supposition that he could let it fall in ruins were 
entirely inadmissible : ‘ ‘ certainly, my dear, it is nearly time 
for our evening devotions.” 

W'hile Dan brought the Bibles from the book-case, Mrs. 
Babbon endeavored to arrange three chairs in a small arc, 
that being the nearest possible approach to a family circle, 
with only three members in the family. A chapter was se- 
lected, and each read one verse in turn until it was finished. 
Mr. Babbon then sounded several notes, preparatory to 
starting a hymn. But a glance of the sharp, black eyes 
warned him to omit no part of the programme, and brought 
him to his knees ; and, while he repeated his skeleton prayer 
his wife, at one end of the family arc, reflected upon the 
hollowness of lip-service, and his son, at the other end, gazed 
fondly on the new charms with which his fancy and his pencil 
had endowed Mrs. Uriah. 


22 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE, 


CHAPTER m. 

THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 

Deacon Biggot’s pasture was a long distance from his house, 
and on Sundays his young disciple took especial delight in 
his trips thither, for they afforded respite from the catechism. 
No sooner had the deacon directed him to bring the cows 
than the Brand set about his preparations. His S unday- 
clothes were exchanged for his work-day dress, which, in 
summer, consisted of a blue cotton shirt, and overalls of the 
same material, of a length and breadth suflScient for the 
growth of several years, — evidence of mistaken foresight, 
indeed, for the boy was not likely to gain either height or 
weight in his present environment. These two garments 
composed his entire covering, except a discarded straw hat 
w^hich the good man had presented him with, and whose wide, 
flapping brim rested upon his ears. Thus attired, he climbed 
to his corner of the hay-loft and drew from its hiding-place 
a long, leathern lash, secured to a short whip-stock. Except 
a few marbles, this was his only toy, and unto it w^ere im- 
parted his troubles, as unto some confidential fetich. Burner 
he had christened it, and that name was carved upon the 
handle. Six days in the week he carried it about his person, 
and the seventh it was hidden under the hay. Besides this 
he had but one other treasure, — a little, sore-eyed, ill-fa- 
vored cur, of guilty mien, of odious habits. and of evil repute, 
but believed by his master to be possessed of many shining 
qualities. Among incredulous mates the Brand was wont to 
maintain that his favorite was a “ tarrier,” of unblemished 
descent, and that no other animal of his species, from poodle 
to mastiff, and from the torrid to the frigid zone, was worthy 
of mention on the same day. Burner in hand he clambered 
down, and wended his way through the stable to the barn- 
yard, where Purp lay basking by the door of his kennel* At 
sound of his footsteps the little mongrel sprang up, with glad 
yelps, and plunged about in an extravagant ebullition of joy. 


THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 


23 


“ I wish I felt as gay as him,” said the Brand. “He’s 
awful skittish to-day, — I expect he don’t know it’s Sunday. 
He wants to be burnt ; that’s wot he wants.” 

And, uncoiling his lash, he burnt his pet, once, with the 
effect of reducing him to comparative quietude. Gazing 
fondly at him a moment, he lifted him by the neck, dropped 
him gently over the fence, and, climbing over after him, 
started for the pasture. Certain that the deacon would be 
watching his behavior from the window, he thrust the Burner 
up his sleeve and trudged past the house with a sober face, 
imitating the good man’s humble gait as well as he could, and 
keeping Purp in an orderly trot by his side. Master and dog 
continued the same steady pace, until hidden from view by a 
bend of the road. Then, fairly out of the deacon’s sight, 
Jackedo shook off his Sunday-face and walked briskly along. 
The Burner was brought from its concealment, to the great 
discomfort of Purp, who listened in constant trepidation to 
its snapping among the thistles. Now and then the Brand 
would steal towards some tall weed, as though taking his 
mortal enemy at a fatal disadvantage, crying in a vengeful, 
exultant voice : 

“ I’m a child o’ Satan, I? ” 

On the instant, a savage cut with his whip would tear 
up the supposititious deacon by the roots, and send him 
whirling aloft. Presently he caught sight of a little, moving 
hillock of fresh earth. Silently creeping near, he measured 
the distance with his eyes, then bounded into the air, and 
alighted close behind the hillock, driving his bare heels into 
the ground and crying, “A mold! a mold! sick him, 
Purp!” 

Purp made the earth fly as though a shell had exploded 
there, and in a moment tossed out the blacky glossy carcase 
of a mole which, in another moment, he would have torn to 
shreds but for the infliction of a timely burn. The Brand 
pocketed his prize and walked on, cracking his whip. Occa- 
sionally he drew the dead mole from his pocket and shook it 
fiercely, with the triumphant harangue : 

“There then! If you had knowed your deacon was 
round, you’d uv staid abed. I believe you said I wos a 
child o’ Satan. Say ! be I one 7how ! You used to boot me 
an’ bang me round ; but you never thought the time would 


24 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


come I’ d nab you by the muzzle. Say ! you old, gone-in 
Herod, be I a Gallio now? ” 

Evidently he regarded the little beast as another represen- 
tative of Deacon &ggot. But, as the flush of triumph passed 
off, he muttered, “1 wish’t I wos a mold. He can fat up 
easy, cos he gets enough to eat; an’ nobody warms him, 
most terrible, becos he don’t know his old catechism an’ his 
Bible-werses. If he’s got any sould he can steer it his own 
self. They ain’t nobody to call him Child o’ Satan, an’ keep 
making of him into a pious little feller, till he’s all wore-out 
an’ done for. I say a mold’s a lucky cove ; all he’s got to 
do is just to rootle.” 

The road he was following led to a range of hills, covered 
with a forest of cedars, and then bending to the right became 
a narrow lane, winding along the base of a rocky ledge and 
bounded on the other side by meadows, full of golden-rod 
and tall rushes, that stretched away to the Wepawaug. At 
the edge of the meadows, towards the further end of the 
ledge, was the home of Phoebe Young. It was an old- 
fashioned cottage, with gable roof and dormer-windows, 
trimmed with white, and covered with a coat of dark-red paint 
which ,had well withstood the rain and sunshine of many 
years. Over the front door projected a wooden upper lip, 
beneath which appeared a small, oval sign of japanned tin, 
bearing in dingy, gilt letters the legend ; “ Insured ; Mutual ; 
Hartford.” The moss-covered roof was dappled with bright 
patches where rotting shingles had been recently replaced, 
and shades of green paper adorned the front windows. 
Always, in the latter part of summer, a large, yellow cucum- 
ber was to be seen, nailed up near the side-entrance, like 
some charm against evil spirits. But, in autumn, its place 
was taken by a bunch of red peppers, while loops and fes- 
toons of sliced apples dangled from the windows, drying in 
the sun. In front stood a neat white paling, whose upright, 
honest-looking pickets gave to the place an aspect of unde- 
viating integrity. On one side a rough stone wall extended 
to the rear, and on the other was a board fence whose posts, 
in sunny weather, displayed the cleanly housewife’s pride of 
bright pans and kettles. Many blossoming shrubs and vines 
flourished in the yard, where a variety of flowers, in their re- 
spective seasons, added beauty to the green sward. Miss 


THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 


25 


Miiry Martin was a good-natured spinster whose affections 
were lavished upon her niece.' Religious she was, as were 
all spinsters in that region, for not to be religious was to be 
not respectable. But, fortunately for Phoebe, she had no 
faith in the methods practiced by Deacon Biggot. As they 
walked home, after church, she would not reprove Phoebe for 
gathering buttercups by the roadside, or for answering mer- 
rily to the scolding cat-birds and the chattering thrushes. 
On Sundays, as on other days, Phoebe could sit under the 
shady trees near the house, amusing herself with books and 
flowers ; and thus it happened that while the Brand was com- 
ing up the lane she was plucking dandelions in the yard, and 
linking their stems into a chain. The two were acquainted, 
for both attended the district- school kept by Deacon Biggot. 
Once, she had suffered punishment rather than inform against 
him and in his life that was an epoch. It was his first expe- 
rience of kindness, so far as he could remember, and from 
that hour she had been to him the one peerless beauty of the 
world, — the incarnation of , all grace and goodness, and the 
queen to whom he would have bound himself a lifelong sub- 
ject. Accordingl}’^, on the watch for a chance to see her as 
he drew near her home, he walked softly up to the fence and 
stood looking timidly over. In a low, diffident voice he 
exclaimed : 

“ Look, Phoebe ; see here ! ” at the same time holding up 
his prize and smoothing its fur with his hand. Phoebe 
started at the voice and ran to the fence, crying, “ How 
pretty ! Jackey, what is it? 

“A mold,” explained the Brand, adding with a didactic 
air of superior intelligence, “wot rootles in the ground, you 
know. Me an’ Purp dug him up, down the road ; he wos out 
Sabbath-breaking. ’ ’ 

“ Is he dead? ” inquired Phoebe. 

“He’ll never be no deader,” replied the Brand. “His 
deacon has lit on him.” 

Phoebe took the mole and, stroking its beautiful, velvety 
fur, inquired who was its deacon. 

“Oh,” replied the Brand, with an air of mystery, “ he’s a 
little, sinful child o’ Satan with a terrible-flinty heart. You 
know him. Bet, now, an’ see ! It’s easy.” 

“ I know,” returned Phoebe ; “ but are they savage? ” 


26 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Worse tliuQ small lionds,” replied the Brand, not indis- 
posed to set off the courage of his pet. “ You had ought to 
seen him shake that dog. But he wos a gone mold, wUen 
his deacon got to work on him.” 

“He’s blind!” cried Phoebe, in the astonishment of 
sudden discovery. “ He hasn’t any eyes 1 ” 

“ He don’t want no eye,” returned the Brand. “ He don’t 
want nothing but a nose, — all he’s got to do is to rootle. I 
only wish’t I had been born a mold, — p’r’aps I would had 
better luck.” 

“ Here, doggy ! Here, doggy ! ” exclaimed Phoebe, hold- 
ing out her hand. “ Poor little doggy ! ” 

“No use,” said the Brand. “ He don’t b’lieve in nobody 
nor nothing, — not any more, he don’t. He’s been gummed 
too often ; an’ he’s had too many mean games come on 
him.” 

Then, whirling his long lash, he displayed its excellence 
and his own dexterity by scorching his favorite, who had 
shrunk down upon the grass just within range. 

“ Come here, Purp ; stan’ up ! ” he commanded. 

The dog ran up and rose on his hind legs. 

“Now fold your hands an’ say your prayers I ” continued 
the Brand. 

The dog commenced a low whine, and, as he crossed his fore- 
paws, gradually increased it to a howl, then pursued a slow 
diminuendo and suddenly concluded with two sharp yelps. 
Phoebe’s delight was unbounded, while the Brand’s emotions 
were divided between pride in the accomplishments of his pet 
and pleasure in contributing to the entertainment of his fair 
young queen. 

“ That’s nothing to wot he can do,” declared the Brand. 
“He knows more than anybody would b’lieve: an’ he’s a 
better Christian to-day than some old saints I know of. Now 
then, Purp ! we’ll have some 7iice catechism I ” 

Instantly, the dog dropped on all fours and sprang off with 
a yell of terror, but a hissing stroke of the Burner cut short 
his retreat and brought him back, cowering. 

“You don’t get rid of it so easy.,” said the Brand. “I 
never could, an’ you ain’t going to. It ain’t to he got rid of, 
let me tell you, neither on four legs nor on two.” 

Apologetically, he explained to Phoebe : 


THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 


27 


“ Catechism is pizun to him. I expect it makes him sick 
at his stnmmik. Sometimes I’ve thought I’ve given him too 
much, ail’ that’s why he keeps so awful poor an’ skinny. 
Alter his lesson is done, may be he goes off by hisself an’ 
worn its. Stan’ up, Piirp ! ” 

The dog again assumed his attitude of devotion. 

“Now then,” said the Brand, “wot’s the chief end of a 
dog ? ’ ’ 

“ Bow ! wow ! wow ! ” answered the performer. 

‘ ‘ All right ! ’ ’ replied the Brand. “ Now for a stinger ., ’ ’ — 
wot’s election'^ ” 

Purp showed his teeth with a growl. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the Brand : “you don’t love it like cook- 
ies, I know, but you've got to stand it;" and he cracked his 
whip. 

“ Ky-yi ! ” responded his pupil. 

“I thought you’d find out,” returned the Brand, plying the 
Burner with skill. “Come, tune up ! ” 

“ Ky-ee ! ky-ee ! ky-ee ! ” shrilled the dog. 

“ Now, once more!” cried the Brand. “Give us adop- 
tion, san’terfication an’ justification by faith: — all three, 
hand running ! Sail in ! ” 

Whereupon the accomplished brute turned his eyes to the 
highest heaven and uttered a series of long-drawn howls, in- 
terspersed with frantic yelps, until his master suddenly ter- 
minated the exercise, and laid him prostrate, by a timely burn. 

“He couldn’t stood it much longer,” j'ou see,” said the 
Brand. “That justification by faith strains him terrible. 
I’m afraid he’d get the blind staggers.” 

Phoebe lauglied till the tears streamed down her cheeks. 
She had read about Punch and Judy, but never had she im- 
agined anything to compare with the performance which she 
now witnessed. 

But he’s gamey" resumed the Brand. “ He’d stick to 
that there arrangement by faith till he died, if I didn’t make 
him let up on it. Oh, he’s gamey, to the bone. Now then, 
Piirp, get up ! We’ll sing the sockdolager an’ close. Come, 
sing it, yon hide-bound sinner, sing it ! ” 

Purp obeyed not and was severely cauterized, but he only 
whined, and lashed the sod with his tail, and hugged the 
ground. 


28 


A roCrNG DISCIPLE. 




‘‘ Sing it! you little, goaty worm o’ the dust! ” cried the 
wrathful Brand, as he whirled his whip. Sing it., you 
bench-legged child o’ Satan, or I’ll burn the hair off your 
back 1 Sing it, now! Sing it., I tell yer !” 

But the. effort was vain. No music was to be elicited from 
Purp’s throat. 

“He’s got his eyes set,’^ explained the Brand, as he de- 
sisted from his efforts, “an’ when he does once set ’em he 
ain’t to be moved. No use burning of him then. He wouldn’t 
even wink, — not if you wos to hit him with a axe. It’s becos 
he has soured on that there catechism, an’ he’s afraid I won’t 
know when to stop. But you ain’t heard one half, yet. He 
knows ten pages more, an’ sometime he's got to say ’em for 
you.” 

“ Jackey, you ain’t a Sabbath-breaker, are you ?” asked 
Phoebe ; “ you ain’t wicked f ” 

The Brand’s cheerfulness vanished. With downcast e^ms 
and a humiliated voice, he replied : 

“ I don’t know ; he says I be. I’ve awluz tried my best, 
but wot’s the use ? — I ain’t one o’ the elected. No use for 
a little feller wot’s bound to turn out bad, anyhow, an’ 
fetch up on the gallers. I ain’t no child o’ Satan, but I ex- 
pect I’ve got to be hung, — ’twould be just my luck.” 

“ Don’t say that! ” exclaimed Phoebe with childish com- 
passion. “ What makes you say you’ve got to be hanged ? ” 

“ He told me so,” replied the Brand, lowering his head to 
hide the tears in his eyes, “ an’ I feel like it would sometime 
come true. He begun v>^hen I was young, scaring me with 
wolves an’ bonds, an’ he kep’ it up till I had growed so 
mis’rable I almost wished they yfould come and nab me. He 
keeps on calling me child o’ Satan an’ telling me I can’t be 
good, nohow, cos he expects I ain’t one o’ the elected.^ Nor 
I don’t want to be, if they’re all like him, — I’d ruther go off 
the hooks. Sometimes I feel like I could chuck him down 
the well, an’ that’s why I think them gall^’s may come true. 
He’s made me hate the Bible an’ the Sabber-school, an’ he’s 
kep’ on making me feel wickeder every day, till now I’ve got 
my eyes set just like Purp. I won’t try no more, cos wot’s 
the use ? I luish’t I wos a mold.” 

The unhappy Brand leaned upon the wall and wept at the 
thought of his misery. Whereat Phoebe, stepping up on 


THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 


29 


some loose stones, begged him not to cry and kissed him. 
Then she playfully threw her chain around his neck. 

“I wouldn’t care wiiat Deacon Biggot says,” she cried. 
“ He’s wickeder than you, any day. 7 don’t believe you’re 
bad, and 1 shall say my prayers for you.” 

“ ’Twont be no use,” murmured the Brand, as he drew 
the blue cotton sleeve across his eyes ; “ ’twont be no use. 
You’ve awluz said kind things to me, an’ you’re just like a 
blessed angel ; an’ I wish’t you would say prayers for me, cos 
I won’t say ’em no more ; I‘ve tried ’em long enough.” 

He started on, with the Burner dangling, 'unheeded, from 
his hand and Purp cowering at his heels. The sun had 
spent its tierce heat and was nearing the horizon, throwing 
the broad, darkening shadow of the Cedars far over the 
meadows, and lighting the evergreen forest with level rays. 
But the sunlight could not pierce the gloom that had settled 
on the heart of the miserable Brand nor dispel the cloud that 
brooded on his countenance. The woods echoed with the 
melody of birds, but they provoked no answering whistle 
from him. At any other time he would have dashed madly 
after the squirrels that sped along the fence, and the welkin 
would have rung with his cry, “ Sick him, Purp ! ” But now 
he hu’ng his head and shuffled along, with the whip-lash 
trailing on tlie ground and Purp sneaking behind. Reaching 
the pasture, at length, he found the cows waiting at the bars 
and, di'iving them into the road, followed them towards home. 
From the open door, Phoebe saw him trudging past on his 
return. 

“Oh, aunty,” she cried, “how sorry I am for Jackedo’ 
Deacon Biggot is always beating him, and calling him bad 
names, and making him feel wicked. He’s been trying to be 
good ever so many years, but he can’t ; he says it isn’t any 
use, because Deacon Biggot makes him hate the Bible and 
the Sunday-school. And now he isn’t going to say any more 
prayers ; and he wants to be a mole, and have everybody 
leave him alone to root in the ground. Aunt Mary, I don’t 
believe Deacon Biggot is a good man, nor I don’t see how 
God can love him. I should think he’d rather love Jackedo, 
if he is ragged and if he does go barefoot. I would. I 
couldn’t love^Deacon Biggot, if I wanted to. It’s dreadful 
to hear him pray. He rolls up his eyes till they’re all white, 


30 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


and his teeth look like horses’ teeth ; and he quivers with his 
tongue like a sheep. There isn’t a single one that loves him. 
The girls make faces at him, and the boys call him Old Big. 
They’d stone him if they dared. See how sorrowful he 
lOOks ! ” 

Miss Martin saw the Brand tramping dejectedly down the 
lane. 

“I think Deacon Biggot would have done better,” said 
she, “ if he’d left that boy in the Five Points Mission. How 
small and thin he is ! Poor little orphan ! I don’t believe 
he’ll ever grow.” 

The twilight deepened and still the long whip-lash draggled 
in the dust, and Purp sneaked along behind, while the Brand 
shuffled nearer home. Occasionally he scoured his eyes with 
his shirt-sleeve and muttered : 

“ ’Twont be no use. It ain’t but mighty few as wos ever 
kind to me, — not but one has ever kissed me, an’ she’s a 
blessed angel, — but no use to say prayers for me, cos I bet 
’twill all come true, — I wosn’t born for luck.” 

At length he reached home. Driving the cows into the 
barn-yard, he deposited the Burner in a place of safety, and 
made his way to the kitchen wliere the deacon and his wife 
were at supper. Martha, the deacon’s wife, was a devout 
woman, with a fair share of common sense which failed her 
for the first time when the deacon lured her into matrimony. 
She was always plainly and even poorly dressed, as became 
the wife of a determined enemy to the vanities of the world, 
and, in her carriage and demeanor, there was an air of com- 
plete subjugation. Her husband had devoted himself to 
training her for a brighter and better land, and it was fair 
to presume that the process was nearly finished, for it was 
easy to see tliat she had long been weaned from all earthly 
pleasure. As the boy stole in at the door the deacon looked 
up and said, with the manner of conferring a boon, “Now 
you may go and milk, and then you shall have some supper.” 

“ Yes’r,” replied the Brand, as he cast a longing eye at 
the frugal board. He then took the milk-pail and went out. 
The deacon had not failed to see the idolatrous look which 
his young serf threw on the table. 

“ Marthy,” said he, “I fear that fro ward child is wholly 
given over to the Evil One. Behold how he lusteth after the 
meat that perisheth.” 


THE BRAND AND PHOEBE YOUNG. 


31 


At that moment a hot bean chanced to be rolling about, in 
the spheroidal state, on Marthy’s tongue, and she uttered a 
low moan as the fiery ball burned its way to her stomach. 
But the deacon, not doubting that the boy’s depravit}’' was 
the cause of his wife’s distress, rejoiced in that proof of her 
piety. When the Brand returned from milking, the twain 
had ended their meal. He seated himself at the table and 
attacked the remnants with a hungry appetite, while the good 
man retired to another room for private devotions. The ex- 
tremities of a mackerel were quickly swallowed, together 
with some bread and some beans. But the Brand’s straw 
hat rested between his knees, under the table, and into that 
receptacle was conveyed a portion of his feast. This much in 
the interest of Purp who, but for his master’s thoughtfulness 
and self-denial, must have retired supperless to his kennel. 
Having finished his repast, the Brand departed to share his 
gains with the faithful partner of his joys and sorrows. 
That duty done, he climbed to his corner of the hay-loft, car- 
rying the little cur in his arms. But Marthy sat in the 
kitchen, refiecting upon the traces of tears that she had dis- 
covered on the young disciple’s face. Her imagination 
strove to picture the great city whence he had come and 
which she had never seen. The hand of an inscrutable Prov- 
idence had brought him to them, and she devoutly murmured, 
‘• He doeth all things well.” And not long thereafter she 
sighed, “I wish he had never come.” 

Then she knelt and prayed, and finally she slept, but her 
dreams were haunted by the Ih-and’s sad, tearful face. But 
in tlie hay-loft Jackedo lay upon his blanket, with his loved 
companion curled up near him, dreaming sweetly of the little 
angel who had kissed him, and slept soundly through the 
night. 


32 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 

The district-school was a promiscuous assemblage of boys 
and girls, whose unpretentious hall of learning was a small, 
weather-worn, wooden building, perched on a low hill not far 
from the village-center ; and the teacher, or rather the master 
was Deacon Biggot. Outside, the ancient structure was hacked 
with knives, splashed with ink, and battered all over with stones. 
Especial!}^ under the eaves on the sunny side, where the wasps 
had insanely attempted to found their colonies, the indented 
and splintered boards showed the havoc of repeated bombard- 
ment. All around the edifice the bald surface of the ground 
was trodden as hard and smooth as cement, and irregularly 
inlaid with bits of slate-pencil, buttons of metal and of horn, 
pop-gun ramrods, and shining fragments of buckles. Here 
and there were rows of little hemispherical pits where the 
boys played cup-ball, and, close to the underpinning, the 
shallow channels which caught the rain from the roof w^ere 
strewn with rejected billets-doux and unfinished sonnets. At 
one end of the door-step a mound of sweepings formed an 
inexhaustible mine of pins, — worked with great industry at 
hours of recess and intermission. A number of bare poles 
slanting out of the earth proved that young trees had once 
been planted there, though the manner in which they were 
bent, twisted, and polished, by the shins of vandal urchins, in- 
dicated that they had long been devoted to gymnastic pur- 
poses. The exterior of the building was defaced with ini- 
tials, carved in the wood, and with numerous rude designs, 
wherein young artists had displayed various degrees of skill, 
on subjects chosen with remarkable unanimity ; and near 
some of these specimens could be seen the names of old men 
yet living in the village. Among themselves the boys de- 
bated whether those old gray-beards cut the figures there 
when they were boys, and gave abundant proof that in that 
branch of art the rising generation were not a whit behind 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


33 


their predecessors. But even less inviting than the outside 
was the interior. The lloor was worn down into hollows, out 
of w^hich rose knotty liummocks, and on every side ragged 
laths protruded from the broken plaster. The same artistic 
designs so thickly executed upon the exterior, w^ere done in 
pencil on the inner walls, which were also stained with ink 
and embossed with innumerable paper pellets. Mamifestl}’, 
the clock was the most eligible target, for the pulpy missiles 
were planted all around it, and upon its face appeared a 
plenteous crop of huge warts. On three sides of the room a 
sloping desk of pine was built against the wall, and furnished 
with a substantial bench. A rectangular pit, some fifteen 
inches in depth, occupied the central space, and around this 
the low-bench took its course, parallel to the high-bench at a 
distance of four feet. On the fourth side, between two doors 
which communicated respectively with the wood-closet and 
the playground, was a platform with the master’s table and 
chai]'. 

Deacon Biggot was reputed to be a successful teacher, and 
so, in some respects, he was. His chief qualification was a 
firm belief in total depi*avity, and if a teacher ever succeeded 
in bull3hng and badgering his pupils into a lasting hatred of 
himself and the studies which he pretended to direct, that 
man was Deacon Biggot. 

Monday morning, at nine o’clock, the children were assem- 
bled on the playground, and the master’s ferrule, rapping 
harshly near the door, announced that it was time to take their 
seats. High-bench and low-bench were soon filled, and the dea- 
con, shading his eyes with a pair of large green spectacles, 
opened the school with prayer. Not on account of defective 
vision were the glasses worn, but they served for a hiding- 
place, behind which those twinkling green eyes were accus- 
tomed to lurk in ambush for unwary culprits. Louder and 
more fervent grew the deacon’s prayer, in regular crescendo, 
till the benches vibrated in unison, while the countenance of 
every living High-bencher expressed a mute but eloquent re- 
pudiation of alfpart and lot in each successive petition. And 
Low-bench bosoms thrilled with delight at sight of Dan 
Babbon, facing the master with cheeks distended like minia- 
ture balloons, and a tremulous play of the throat, in imitation 
of the good man’s method of invoking the divine favoi-. Nor 


34 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


was it with diminished interest that they saw his face at once 
assume a frozen look, and his hands drop, folded, on his 
knees, wdiile his eyes closed and his cheeks paled. Suddenly 
the prayer appeared to act on him like some powerful de- 
pressing agent. But the deacon continued a few moments 
longer, pursuing a gradual diminuendo to the end. And 
those minutes seemed ages to the penitent offender who sat 
with folded hands, vainly trying to divert his thoughts from 
the vision of a cruel green eye, glaring at him with fell intent 
from behind a round green glass. But, after the prayer, the 
exercises proceeded as usual. At the first tinkle of the mas- 
ter’s bell, the High-benchers unfolded their hands and placed 
them upon the bench by their sides. Again the bell tinkled 
and all drew their feet together. At the third stroke the 
High-benchers whirled around with their faces to the wall, 
and betook themselves to their books and slates, while the 
Low-benchers mused over their alphabets, and the deacon, 
with his heavy oaken ferule, began pacing round and round 
between the two benches. Not infrequently a smart stroke 
resounded through the room, accompanied by a stifled whine ; 
and then the deacon would smack his lips, with infinite relish, 
and exclaim in a terrible voice, “ Oh, I do hate to miss a 
chance ; it’s meat and drink to me to trounce a lazy boy.” 

One hapless High-bencher — a new-comer, for no experb 
enced pupil would have been guilty of such idiotic heedless- 
ness — was bending forward over the desk, in a manner which 
drew his nether garments very tight upon the part which 
projected backward from the bench. Softly, and by easy 
stages, the deacon drew near, and visited the inviting region 
with a stinging blow. The smarting sinner quickly slipped 
into a less obtrusive position, while the rising chuckle of the 
Low-benchers was instantly quelled by the warning, ‘‘ Be ve 
also ready ! ” The Brand sat next to Dan Babbon. Riveting 
his eyes upon an example in simple addition, and clasping 
his forehead with an air of deep thought, as though engaged 
in some abstruse calculation, he cautiously whispered : 

“I’ve seen him come that goggle-game afore. P’r’aps 
you think he’s forgot all about it. But wait ; that’s all ! ” 

Dan was in no mood for conversation, and the Brand, 
watching till he saw the master seated in his chair, began 
drawing upon his slate an ill-starred vessel, destined to bring 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


Oi) 

him a freight of tribulation. All absorbed in his task as the 
time slipped by, he heard not the deacon’s stealthy step, but 
worked on with praiseworthy diligence, until the unusual 
stillness drew his eyes to the master’s chair. With a sudden 
pang he saw it vacant, and on the instant would have given 
his earthly all to behold that unlucky bark going down for- 
ever in mid-ocean. It was unnecessary to look further. At 
that moment the deacon, bending over his shoulder with a 
genial smile of approbation, inquired, in his blandest voice: 

Jackedo, what is that ? ” 

Undeceived by genial smile or bland voice, the Brand was 
seized with trembling. 

Jackedo, what is that ? ” repeated the good man, tapping 
with his ferule on the slate, and varying his tone with the 
slightest trace of impatience. The Brand now shook like 
one in an ague. He hung his head in deep contrition while 
he answered, in a low, guilty tone ; 

“A ship.” 

The next moment a happy idea flashed upon him and he 
hopefully offered the ingenious explanation : 

“ The wessel wot Pauld wos in; — four anchors hove out 
astern, a-wishin’ for the day. That’s him going up the 
s’rouds.” 

“ Very well, indeed,” returned the deacon ; “complete it, 
Jackedo ! ” 

The Brand was instantly convinced that it was far from 
well, but nerved himself to the task, and fell to again with an 
almost palsied hand. The master stood looking on, and 
High-benchers and Low-benchers watched in breathless ex- 
pectation. Slowly the Brand worked on, adding spars, 
pennon, and rudder; and finally, with ridiculous inconsis- 
tency, considering his explanation that the craft belonged to 
the Apostolic age, he exhausted his skill upon an immense 
pivot-gun, mounted amidships between two pyramids of fixed 
ammunition. 

“Is it done, Jackedo? ” inquired the same bland voice, as 
the boy’s shaking hand rested on the desk. 

“ Yes’r,” gasped the Brand. 

“And that scarecrow up there is the apostle Paul, is it ? ” 

“He wouldn’t look so bad only he’s so high up, an’ the 
wind blows awful hard,” was the trembling apology. 


A Yorryo disciple. 




“But do you suppose the holy apostle had auything to do 
with cannon, or any other instruments of bloodshed ? ” 

Driven to sheer desperation by this unforeseen difficulty, 
the unfortunate Brand wildly asserted : 

“ He never killed anybody with it ; ’twos only for Fourth- 
of-Julys.” 

A derisive laugh ran along the row of Iligh-benchers while 
the deacon again demanded : 

“Is it done, Jackedo ? ” 

“Yes’r,” the Brand once more gasped, with a vengeful 
glance over his shoulder at the mocking Low-benchers. 

“Well then,” roared the good man, “ I will Q,ox>peT the bot- 
tom for you.’ ^ * 

With that, he bent the little artist across the bench, and for 
a few moments nothing was heard but the sound of the ferule. 
Apparently, it w'as important that the metal should be well 
fastened. 

“ Woe be unto 3^011 ! ” thundered the master, glaring around 
the room as he resumed his seat, and woe unmitigated was 
blazoned on eveiy face. But the excitement roused by this 
example of discipline soon died aw'ay, and the school fell 
back into its every-day routine. Weary Low-benchers sat 
with dangling legs and swelling hearts, some beating their 
knees together and delivering fierce repressive strokes upon 
their own persons, to express urgent demands for their pres- 
ence outside, while others worked their waj' further along on 
the bench, with countenances that told of relief purchased 
only by overwhelming mortification, and otherwise made it 
manifest that their necessity for going out had passed. Others 
still, not yec reduced to such dreadful straits, improved 
every oi)portunity to heap further humiliation on those un- 
fortunate fellow-prisoners by unmistakable pantomime, or, in 
silent rapture, recalled glorious legends of terrific combats 
between lions and tigers, or made patient but bootless search 
for new features of interest in the wood-cuts that adorned 
their spelling-books. When cloyed with those keen de- 
lights they would spell out some such sentence as “Wheels 
are an admirable mode of conveyance,” and arrive at vague 
conclusions about the meaning of “ admirable,” onl}' to find 
an inexhaustible field of speculation in “ eouvej'ance.” 
Transitory bliss it proved, not unfre/^^uently, for these 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


37 


thoughtless ones often found their own turn to be plunged 
into dire distress, and to be triumphed over and mocked by 
exulting fellow-sulferers. Many of th® High-benchers rocked 
themselves forward and back over their open books, to inti- 
mate that they were diligently storing up rivers, longitudes, 
deserts, and mountains, while in reality they were heaping 
silent anathemas upon the hated deacon. Or they counted 
their fingers and then seized their slate-pencils in hot haste, 
ostensibly determining the exact number of linear inches in a 
given distance, but in fact computing the precise number of 
solid stones they could hurl at their tyrant in a given time, 
or the weight of burrs they could stick in his hair. Some in- 
ventive spirits indulged in visionary schemes of leather 
shields for their palms, and wooden coats of mail to be worn 
under their jackets. Others pursued their biological re- 
searches upon files, acquiring fresh information by repeated 
experim.ents with the dead and the living subject ; or, con- 
scious of native talent and stimulated by riotous imagination, 
they added new lines of fancied beauty to the time-honored 
designs carved on the desk. 

Such was the children’s prison-house that blazing summer 
day, baking on the bald crown of an arid hill, while the fiery 
sun fiamed, and glared, and beat down in a steady blast of 
caustic rays, as though bent on burning away the shameful 
excrescence. Such the dense, weary, sweltering mass of in- 
nocent captives, droning their lessons, vacantly staring upon 
elysian fields beyond the dingy stone fences, wearing out the 
dreadful hours wuth dreary and perilous amusements, and 
expiating the sins of generations in that purgatory. Such 
their cruel jailor, often rebuking them with solemn cant, and 
often l3reaking out into violent denunciations, — ever watch- 
ing to betray them into distressing dilemmas, and always de- 
vising new torments. At eleven o’clock the bell tinkled and all 
the High-benchers faced about with a joyful whirl. At the 
second stroke all clutched their hats and caps. At the third, 
all marched out for recess, except those hapless ones who 
were compelled to remain and do penance for various acts of 
felony. Once outside, the children reveled in their liberty. 
Marbles, tops, hoops, and balls, were brought out to contrib- 
ute to the general carnival, while the playground rang with 
glad shouts. But Dan Babboh walked off by himself, with a 


38 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


gloomy coimtenance, while the Brand explained to a small 
crowd that the deacon had “ come the goggle-game ” on him. 

“ Once,” said he, “ he come it on me. I shan’t forget it 
till my dying-day. He never touched me, for a week. 
I never knowed liim act so sing’lar, an’ thought p’r’aps 
he wos going crazy. But he wos baiting of me on ; an’ 
when he did light on me — oh, Avot’s the use?” And, 
thrusting his hands into his pockets, nearly to the elbows, the 
Brand spun round on one heel, with a baffled air which plainly 
declared his incompetence to describe that scene. 

“ It’ll serve him right,” said a tall, stout, bullet-headed 
boy. “Dan Babbon is stuck up mighty high, and he’d aught 
to be took down. I’ll punch his jaw myself, some day, just 
for fun.” 

“ Look here, rinchey ! ” cried the Brand ; “ Dan Babbon 
don’t never act stuck-up, to me ; an’ wot be I but a old rag- 
bag? You won’t never ketch him going on the cheat, like 
some dead-beats I know. Nor you don’t ever ketch him put- 
ting tar on his heels when he pitches pennies, to pick ’em up 
with, and pretend they’re lost.” 

“Shut your yawp, you young devil!” retorted Pinchey. 
“I’d smash you for two pins.” 

“You say that again !” returned the Brand, beginning to 
revolve in an ellipse whereof Pinchey was the focus. “Say 
it once more I ” 

Pinchey repeated the obnoxious remark, with many offen- 
sive additions, while the Brand circled on a shortening ra- 
dius, sparring at the wind and crying : 

“Touch me ! Just touch me, if you want to see stars 1 ” 

Pinchey no sooner received the invitation than he arrested 
the Brand in his orbit, and twisted his nose ; and, when re- 
leased, the latter revolved again, clamoring : 

“Hit me : hit me ! you hit me just once ! ” 

Then, stung by the derisive shouts of the crowd, he darted 
at his focus and was kicked sprawling. 

“Pinchey! you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” cried 
Phoebe Young who stood among her mates, a few paces off. 
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, — a great, big cow- 
ard, kicking a little boy ! ” 

“Hush your gab!” growled Pinchey; “I’ll boot him 
again. And I’ll slap your mouth if you don’t keep still.” 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


39 


“I’d like you to try that on ! ” cried the Braud, who was 
by no means conquered, and who was already circling in a 
new orbit. “Just try it ; that’s all !” 

The tall boy advanced on his small antagonist and would, 
no doubt, have given him a beating but that the ferule of the 
master, rapping just then, started them all on a run for their 
seats. The fleet-footed High-benchers darted in, with Low- 
benchers pressing their rear, the tardy ones scudding past 
the deacon wdth protuberant abdomens and backs rendered 
excessively concave, to diminish the force of the blow which 
each expected behind. The deacon resumed his stealthy 
rounds. High-benchers rocked and droned, and, ere long. 
Low-benchers were again knocking their knees together and 
smiting themselves with looks of distress. 

Pinchey was the bully of the school. Bent on establish- 
ing his authority over the only formidable one whom he had 
not yet thrashed, he found an opportunity to launch several 
paper missiles at Dan Babbon, and to threaten him with ges- 
tures. And Dan’s flery eyes flashed at the whispered story 
of the Brand’s encounter with Pinchey, and of the insult of- 
fered to Phoebe. The atmosphere of the school-room was 
ominous of an approaching combat. Bold High-benchers, 
reading the signs of impending battle, tacitly enlisted Under 
one or the other banner, while tender Low-benchers became 
oblivious to everything else, and, as the hour of dismissal 
drew near, kept their eyes riveted on the clock in a state of 
suppressed excitement which bordered on delirium. At the- 
stroke of twelve the deacon hastened home for dinner, and 
the children loitered as usual around the door. But, instead 
of their customary nois}^^ glee, there was an expectant 
silence till the master had disappeared. Then Pinchey 
planted himself in front of Dan, and clenching his big fist 
demanded : 

“Do you want to fight?” 

Dan’s ruddy cheeks flushed a deeper red, and the latent 
passion in his great black eyes blazed out. 

“ Yes, I do,^’ he cried, in a quick, eager tone, “ I feel just 
like it. 

The boys gathered around with excited faces, while the 
girls stood in an almost breathless group at a short distance. 

“It’s about time your head was punched, and I’m the boy 


40 


A VOUNG DISCIPLE. 


to do it,” said Finchey. “I’m going to lick you so you’ll 
stay licked.” 

“ Well, here I am,” retorted Dan, dashing Ills cap to the 
earth and pressing close to his antagonist. A spirited cheer 
from Dan’s partisans greeted this defiance; but it ended in 
consternation as their leader measured his length on the 
ground before a powerful blow in the face. 

“At him again ! ” cried the Brand, and on the instant Dan 
was up and came on again, only to fall before a second 
stroke. Finchey’s height and length of arm gave tremendous 
force to his brawny fist ; but Dan was tough as hickory and 
his spirit was indomitable. Finchey sneered at the other’s 
attempts to reach him with the right hand and then with the 
left, w'hilc the Brand muttered : 

“ ’Tisn’t no use. He’s gainey, but he’ll have to cave in.” 

The battle went on. 'Marks of it were plentifully sprinkled 
over Dan’s face and bosom, and Fhoebe, dismayed at the 
sight, covered her eyes. But Finchey’s confidence, as well 
as his strength, began to give way before those furious suc- 
cessive onsets. Five times had he felled his opponent, with- 
out in the least disheartening him. As Dan came on the 
sixth time, apparently as fresh as ever, Finchey leveled him 
to the dust, and immediately falling on him began pounding 
him to insure the victory. But, with a violent effort, Dan 
I'eversed their positions and sat on Finchey’s bosom. 

“Now you’ve got him ! ” yelled the Brand, “let him have 
it ! Funch him ! ” 

In a few moments the battle was won. 

“Now will you behave yourself ?” demanded the victor, 
as he rested on his prostrate foe. 

“Yes.” 

“Say yes, sir?’' roared Dan. 

Finchey muttered, “Yes, sir.” 

“Do you think 3^ou’re able to punch my jaw ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Say no, sir !” cried Dan, shaking his fist. 

“No, sir.” 

“ Do you think \^ou ever can ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

The conqueror rose, panting, and looked proudly down at 
his fallen enemy amidst deafening pieans. Finchey then raised 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


41 


himself np. Instantly Dan seized him, and leading him to the 
group of girls where Phoebe stood, bade him kneel and beg 
her pardon. The conquered bully submitted to the order, 
and then sneaked off, while High-bencher and Low-bencher 
rent the air with cheers, and the delighted Brand circled 
around with the Burner uncoiled, giving expression to his 
satisfaction by lashing the earth. As Dan started off, sur- 
rounded by a triumphant band, he heard Phoebe’s voice say- 
ing, “How brave and handsome!” and at that moment 
he would not have exchanged his laurels for the sceptre of 
any earthly king. For an hour the school-room was deserted, 
and then, at the summons of the master’s ferule, the pupils 
rushed back to their seats and the dismal burlesque was re- 
commenced. The rocking, droning, carving, and dissecting, 
were presently renewed. Renewed ‘ were the dangling of 
weary legs and vague memories of glorious legends ; the wist- 
ful gazing over hot stone-walls at inaccessible elysian fields ; 
the silent mocking, the beating of knees and smiting of 
bowels. Repeated was the whole dreary sham of that shame- 
ful absurdity. Deacon Biggot’s district-school. But Pinchey’s 
place was vacant, and Low-benchers looked at Dan Babbon 
wdth wonder, occasionally kneading their noses, or boring at 
their eyes with their knuckles, to illustrate the varying for- 
tunes of the combat. No long time elapsed before the deacon 
espied a sprightly tenant of the Low-bench throttling himself 
and rolling his eyes in mimic agony. Noiselessly he stole 
from his seat and stood behind the unsuspecting urchin, who, 
unduly stimulated by the grins of those that had witnessed 
the masterly movement against his rear, redoubled his exer- 
tions, and then, glancing toward the master’s chair, collapsed 
very suddenly. 

“Well done, William!” said the deacon, with a gracious 
smile. “But practice makes perfect ; try once more ! ” 

“Very pale, and sick at heart, but goaded by terror, Wil- 
liam tried once more, and, as might have been expected, 
made a signal failure. 

“Do not be discouraged,” the good deacon gently urged, 
in a voice full of friendly encouragement. “Try it again !” 

No mortal inhabitant of the globe was ever whelmed in 
more gloomy despair than that blighted infant. But, hounded 
by unutterable emotions, he tried again, and kept trying, 


42 


A YOUNG DTSCIPLE. 


desperately and involuntarily, but with brightening prospects 
of unprecedented success. The good man held up his 
ferule. 

“Here is a little instrument,” said he, assuming a didactic 
manner, precisely as if exhibiting a piece of philosophical 
apparatus, “and it is truly wonderful what assistance it 
yields in difficulties of this nature. Here we have a boy, 
expert at twisting his face into grotesque forms. But he has 
forgotten how to perform. It is in just such cases that our 
little instrument exhibits its best powers.” 

“1 wasn’t only showin’ how he went,” pleaded the urchin, 
with budding hopes of earning a reprieve by treachery. 

“How loho went?” demanded the deacon. 

“ Bindley !” squeaked the youngster. “Him and Dan 
Babbon, — when they was fighting.” 

“Fighting, were they!” the deacon cried. “That is 
something to be remembered.” 

“He’s going on the bait,” whispered the intelligent 
Brand. 

But the budding hopes of that fated child were suddenly 
blasted ; there was no reprieve for him. 

“ Now AVilliam,” the good man continued, “we will apply 
our little instrument. Please hold out your hand ! ” 

AVilliam shrank backward and downward, leaving his palm 
extended ; and the vivacity of his renewed performance 
quickly proved that the powers of the little instrument had 
not been overrated, and that it was w^orking to a charm. 

The rest of that day the school-room was unusually quiet. 
Low-benchers sweltered in peace, indulging in fond but de- 
lusive hopes of speedy promotion, or idly dreaming of 
Utopian schools where the master slept all day long, and 
every alternate week was vacation. High-benchers rocked 
in silence, and the deacon divided the time between listening 
to recitations and pacing his rounds. The closing exercise 
was spelling, and for that the High -benchers faced about at 
the stroke of the bell. The master stationed himself behind 
his table, and opening a spelling-book said : 

“ Jackedo, you may spell flea.” 

The Brand was no bright ornament to his class at Siuj 
time, and the last hour he had squandered in hardening his 
hands wdth rosin. He ruminated gloomily, and by rapid 


THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


43 


mental calculation arrived at the iri'elevant conclusion that 
“twice donbs make one fobs.” 

“ Flea !” repeated the master. 

“I wish’t I could flee ; that’s all I wish’t,” muttered the 
Brand under his breath. And then, with an ej^e to removing 
complications, Ire inquired : 

“Is it the one wot nips you, or the way you go, like a 
arrow?” 

But every existing complication was unremoved, for the 
only answer was that same imperative : 

“Flea!” 

Whatever dim ideas the boy ever had possessed about the 
required arrangement of consonants and vowels, were by this 
time buried in total obscurity, but instinct warned him of 
something very difficult, and the steady glare of those bale- 
ful eyes spurred him on. Gazing fixedl}" on the deacon’s 
face, and feeling his way, he faltered : 

“ and having proceeded thus far, his knowledge 

of physiognomy cautioned him to go no further. 

“Very well indeed,” said the deacon in his kindest tone. 
“But you haven’t quite finished ; now for the rest of it !” 

Rich experience instantly convinced the Brand that it was 
not very well indeed, and, with inordinate haste, he shouted : 

“F-l-e. Flea!” 

The benignant smile, under which the good man usually 
masked his purpose when luring some doomed child to his 
fate, was fast fading. 

“ Jackedo,” said the deacon, “I give you three minutes to 
spell that word.” 

Profound silence pervaded the room. The Brand began 
to knock his forehead as though that could restore order 
amidst the chaos reigning within ; and the deacon, fastening 
his ej^es upon the clock, presently exclaimed : 

“One!” 

Phoebe Young was hurriedly printing the word on her 
slate, in large capitals. 

“Two !” cried the deacon, bending forward as if stretch- 
ing an invisible leash. The wretched Brand threw a glance 
of despair across to where Phoebe sat. Then a sudden flash 
of ioy lighted up his features while he yelled : 

“F-l-e-a. Flea!” 


44 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


A buzz of astonishment ran around among the Low- 
benchers, who knew only by the deacon’s chop-fallen c6un« 
tenance that the riddle was answered. But the good man, 
eyeing the chuckling Brand with a hungry glare, as though 
cheated of legitimate prey, sternly demanded : 

“Who told you?” 

“Nobody,” declared the Brand, whom no torture could 
have forced to betray Phoebe. The deacon strode up to him 
and, propping up his chin with his left hand, repeated : 

‘ ‘ Who told you 1 ’ ’ 

“Nobody, nobody, nobody.,” the Brand returned, with 
dogged resolution, through his closed teeth. 

“It was me, sir,” said a faint voice, and the deacon, turn- 
ing, saw Phoebe blushing guiltily. He went to her and 
harshly ordered : 

‘ ‘ Hold out your hand ! ’ ’ 

Phoebe obeyed and received six stinging blows. And, 
having discharged that duty with fervent zeal, the good man 
hastened back to the devoted Brand. With one hand on his 
neck-band he swung him over the low bench to the stove 
that always stood in the pit. There were ashes remaining 
from the last fire, and ashes are good for scouring, in default 
of sand. 

“Now we will wash away that wicked lie,” said the 
deacon. “That little mouth is defiled by falsehood. It 
must be scrubbed and cleansed.” 

That the scrubbing was done very thoroughly, one would 
infer from the choking and strangling noises emitted by the 
struggling subject of the process. But though it did not 
then clearly appear how much moral purification was ob- 
tained, it was evident to all that, externally, the Brand had 
never been so distressingly unclean. The infliction of that 
righteous penalty consumed the time usually allotted to the 
spelling-lesson, and formed a fitting climax to the instruction 
and discipline most approved in Deacon Biggot’s district- 
school. At the stroke of the bell the children were set free 
and started for their homes, the disgraced Brand sneaking 
away by himself, and muttering as he went : 

“It’s a gay way to make a pious little cove out o’ me.” 

But Dan Babbon, happy in having for the present escaped 
the expected fruits of the goggle-game, and the quarrel with 


IGNIS FATUUS. 


45 


Pinchey, strolled off with his mates, after exchanging an 
ardent parting glance with Phoebe Young. 


CHAPTER V. 

IGNIS FATUUS. 

“My dear,” inquired Mr. Babbon, “isn’t dinner almost 
ready?” 

“ Gracious heavens, Mr. Babbon ! ” replied his dear, “ am 
I not doing all a poor afflicted woman can do ? Am I not 
toiling and slaving my life away for your comfort?” 

He made all haste to answer in a deprecatory way : 

“Oh, never mind, my dear ! it’s of no consequence.” 

“I know it,” Mrs. Babbon pungently returned. “I’m 
aware it’s not of the least consequence that I suffer, and toil, 
and slave, and work my poor aching fingers to the bone. 
But who under the everlasting heavens do you suppose will 
get the dinner ready ? That poor imbecile in your kitchen ? 
Never. Only one thing on the broad earth is she fit for, — 
to sit all day and gorge, and glut herself, like a perfect 
beast. Yes, like a cormorant, Mr. Babbon, a cormorant of 
the ” 

“Of the rolling billow!” suggested Mr. Babbon, with 
an eager but insane effort to calm his wife’s troubled spirit 
by assisting her to an effective period. “I’ll warrant it,” 
he added; “exactly like the laziest and greediest of the 
whole cormorant tribe. A species of sea-bird, are they not, 
my dear ? ” 

But, quite regardless of the effective period, and not in 
tlie least unwound by the concession, Mrs. Babbon con- 
tinued : 

“I tell you once for all, and you may depend upon it, Mr. 
Babbon, you cannot expect any dinner as long as you keep 
your house filled up with those stupid, good-for-nothing, 
Irish animals ; and I’d rather work myself into my coffin 
than have you bring another into this house. I declare 
they’re enough to wear out the patience of Job.” 


46 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Mrs. Babbou paused to regain breath, and her husband’s 
countenance intimated that he knew of something else that 
would have taxed Job’s patience severely, but on that point 
he preserved a discreet silence. He simply said : 

“I am very sorry, my dear, you have so much trouble with 
the servants ; hadn’t we better make a change?” 

“Servants ! ” echoed Mrs. Babbon, in a tone of reproach- 
ful astonishment, as if some one had ventured to question 
her about some trifling dispute while she was describing a 
massacre. “Servants! If that were all, I should call my- 
self blessed. But what on earth is a poor distressed woman 
to do, with not a decent place for the sole of her foot? That 
kitchen smells to heaven ; yes, fairly reeks.” 

Mr. Babbon knew that his wife was a pattern of neatness 
to all housekeepers, and that no particle of dust nor any 
trace of impurity could be discovered, without a microscope, 
anywhere in her domain. 

“ Well, my dear,” he returned, “if the cook can’t keep 
the kitchen clean you’d better get one that can.” 

“Clean 1” echoed the fretful lady. “With such arrange- 
ments I Nobody could do it, — not a soul on the broad 
earth. Don’t you for one instant believe it! It’s a chi- 
mera.” 

Mr. Babbon ventured to say that he would put in other 
modern conveniences. 

“Don’t talk to me about modern coveniences any more !” 
responded Mrs. Babbon, with an air of being surfeited almost 
to nausea. “ I’m tired and sick of them all. I’m worn to 
a thread with your ranges, and pumps, and pipes, and boilers ; 
and I don’t want any more experimenting in my kitchen. 
It’s nothing put patch, patch, patch, and put this in and pull 
out that, and try this and try that, from one decade to 
another. If you want any more experiments you may get 
yourself a kitchen and try them there. I don’t care if you 
pile it full Of heaters, and gradual-bakers, and steam-con- 
densers, and smoke-devourers. Stuff it with your patent ’ 
rubbish till it bursts, if you want to ; but, in my kitchen, I 
don’t want to see another experiment, and I won’t.” 

Mr. Babbon did not say that he should get himself a 
kitchen, but it is certain that he longed for some quiet re- 
treat, even if it were no better than a cellar. 


IGNIS FATUUS. 


47 


“If I had a husband’s sympathy,” continued the agitated 
lady, haranguing an invisible host of sympathizers, “my 
trials would be easier to bear. But here I toil on, week in 
and week out, year after year, and not a soul in the wide 
world to care how soon I perish. 1 am nobody but a poor, 
broken-down, afflicted woman ; it makes no difference what 
becomes of 

Then, dismissing the invisible sympathetic host, and con- 
fronting her husband with culminating pathos, she added: 

“But for you to say it, Mr. Babbon ; for you to declare it’s 
of no consequence what becomes of your wife, that is what 
is killing me. You’ll never believe it till you see me sink 
into my last home, but it is killing me, by inches ; I feel and 
know it.” 

Mr. Babbon attempted no reply but took himself off to the 
shady side of the yard, and there fell into a train of reflec- 
tion that occasionally found vent in the exclamation : 

“Chafe, chafe, chafe ! worry and fret and rasp ! ’’ 

And Mrs. Babbon, with her nervous spring not half un- 
wound, liastened to the kitchen in search of the “poor imbe- 
cile.” Nor was the expedition fruitless; for the unfortunate 
maid was presently heard rushing and plunging hither and 
thither in a state of excitement that promised, if long con- 
tinued, to render her literally demented. But at last, after 
sharp skirmishing and infinite fretting, the dinner was ready, 
and the three members of the family arc appeared at the 
three angles of an imaginary isosceles triangle. 

“Whit-ter, whit- ter, whit!” said the carving-knife to the 
steel, and, without looking up, Mr. Babbon remarked : 

“Tliat’s an excellent piece of beef, my dear, and it’s done 
just right.” 

Mr. Babbon’s dear made no reply, and he knew that her 
sharp black eyes were fastened on him with melancholy 
reproach . 

“Whitty, whitty, whitty ! ” rang the knife, louder and 
faster than before. 

“Bless me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Babbon, as he slid his thumb 
along the edge, “bless me ! how dull it is ! ” 

A novice might have censured him for laying himself open 
to attack by admitting that he had let the knife grow dull ; 
but the novice would have had the conceit taken out of him 


48 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE, 


very quick. For Mr. Babbon was a veteran and, having 
tried a compliment and lost, he invited a direct assault that 
he might accomplish his ultimate purpose during the action. 
And his ultimate purpose was to escape asking the blessing. 
But his wife made no reply and, feeling her keen black eyes 
piercing him through and through, he prepared for uncondi- 
tional surrender. 

“ Wh-it, ter- whit ! ” drawled the knife, in sympathetic hu- 
miliation, and without useless delay the defeated strategist 
recited his formula. There was but one thing to mar Mrs. 
Babbon’s triumph, and that was Dan’s disfigured face at the 
apex of the triangle. 

“ My dear,” inquired Mr. Babbon, “ will you have it well 
done?” 

“Never mind me,” returned the worthy lady, in a tone of 
unruffled content; “a crust and a remnant will do for me.” 

The tranquil serenity that pervaded the room was ominous. 
Mr. Babbon knew it to be the forerunner of a storm. Without 
hope of averting that calamity, but in sheer recklessness, he 
anxiously remarked, “I hope you don’t feel ill, my dear.” 

“I do feel ill,” returned his wife with vanishing tran- 
quility. “It’s enough to break a mother’s heart to see a 
sight like that. Look there ; look at the face of the scape- 
grace ! Is that the way Mr. John Babbon’s son ought to 
look ? Think of it ! Your son^ brawling and fighting 
through the public streets, like a young Choctaw on the war- 
path, — yes, a perfect red-skin, Mr. Babbon, a little Choc- 
taw warrior of the wild woods ! We might as well put on 
the war-paint, and equip him at once, with bow and quiver, 
wampum and tomahawk, and send him forth on the trail, 
gathering scalps.” 

Mr. Babbon drew a silent comparison between dining upon 
herbs and banqueting upon a stalled ox, while his wife re- 
covered breath and continued : 

“See those clothes ! Does he care? Not he.” 

“Dan, have you been fighting?” Mr. Babbon demanded. 

“Yes, sir,” confessed Dan, with fruitless etforts to conceal 
his bruises. 

“ What made you fight? ” 

“Piuchey,” replied Dan. “ He pitehed into me.” 

“Well,” returned Mr. Babbon, “I hope you gave that 


IGNIS FATUUS. 


49 


young rascal a sound thrashing ; he deserves one every day 
of his life.” 

By this unexpected approbation Dan was filled with joy. 
But his mother was astounded. 

“Here, my dear,” said Mr. Babbon,in a penitential mood, 
suddenly discovering that his feelings had gained a transient 
triumph over his judgment, “here is better bread than that.” 

“It is not bread,” replied his wife, in a grief-laden voice, 
“ that can take away my sorrows or give me a well-behaved 
son. Can bread make my husband a true father to his neg- 
lected offspring? If you would do your duty like a Christian 
man, and stand at the head of this household like a Christian 
husband and parent, your son would not be the disgrace to 
the community that he is. What can I expect but that 
he will grow up a worthless vagrant — a vagabond on the 
face of the earth? Mr. Babbon, allow me to correct you ! 
You do not hope he quarrelled with that boy.” 

Dan perceived that his situation was growing more preca- 
rious every minute, and was duly thankful for the appear- 
ance of one of the Imbecile species who announced that a 
gentleman was in the parlor, and that his name was Gridly. 
A look of gratification flashed over Mr. Babbon ’s face and 
he left the table. But after his retreating form Mrs. Babbon 
mournfully cried : 

“There you go, like an ox to the slaughter,^ — yes, to the 
shambles.” 

Mr. Babbon entered the parlor and shook his visitor’s 
hand with a cordial greeting, exclaiming, “How d’ye do, 
Gridly, how d’ye do?” 

“Tol-lol, thank ye,” returned Mr. Gridly, dropping back 
into his chair. “I guess we both feel tol-lol comfortable 
don’t we, Mr. Babbon? Rather more so than some other 
certain parties do.” 

And here the visitor leaned back in his seat, while his 
mouth dilated slowly and gave utterance to a low hissing 
sound. 

“It makes me laugh,” he resumed, “to think how neat 
we’ve headed them fellows off. I call it a clean job.” 

“ But why didn’t you write more fully?” demanded Mr. 
Babbon. “ You didn’t let me know the amount we’ve recov- 
ered ; and I’ve been anxious about it.” 


50 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


"‘No,’’ replied Gridly, “I didn’t write much, that’s a fact, 
nor I don’t like to. Papers make evidence, you know, and 
I never burn my fingers with ’em. But here it is, by word 
of mouth, and here’s the print of it in my pocket. Judg- 
ment was rendered in our favor for one hundred thousand 
dollars and costs, and said judgment was decreed to be a lien 
upon the road prior to claims of bondholders, and the court 
gives us a personal decree against the company. Isn’t that 
a settler for ’em? Won’t it put the screws down hard?” 
As Gridly ceased he pulled a printed document from his 
pocket and handed it to Mr. Babbon, who read it with mani- 
fest excitement. It was a decree of the Court of Appeals in 
a distant State! . A second time Mr. Babbon read it, care- 
fully noting every word. Then he said exultingly : 

“That’s the document, Gridly. That makes a finality of 
it. Yes, yes, it will turn the screws down on them, and I’m 
not sorry either. I’ve been sick and tired of the whole thing 
more than once, I can tell you.” 

Gridly ’s little gray eyes were as sharp as a ferret’s and 
well-skilled in physiognomy. Very watchful they were of 
the other’s countenance, conveying useful information to the 
cunning brain behind. 

“Yes, Gridly,” continued Mr. Babbon, “it has come in 
good time. I was near giving up. I tell you it’s a hard 
tussle for a man single-handed to fight a corporation like 
Carman, Spelter & Co. It’s nearly used me up ; and all 
my friends too. It has drawn in every dollar I could lay 
my hands on.” 

Gridly said nothing, but listened attentively while the 
other continued : “I’m tired to death of this eternal litiga- 
tion. What with appeals, and long dockets i and changes of 
venue, and a thousand and one postponements, it’s been like 
chasing your own shadow round a circle. But the court has 
stopped their caperings and dodgings at last. I hope noiu 
I’ll have a rest, and not be harassed to death by a pack of 
rascally thieves. Counsellors ! notaries ! commissioners ! 
humph ! I’ve had enough. Lawyers they are called. Hun- 
gry wolves I say they are, from highest to lowest and from 
first to last. They’re enough to worry a man into his grave, 
with their dunnings, and threatenings, and plunderings. 
Gridly, I’m glad it’s through with at last, and that Carman, 


IGNIS FATUUS. 


51 


Spelter & Co. have got to toe the mark and pay down the 
cash.” 

Gridly leaned back again, dilated his mouth, and hissed 
himself red in the face. And Mr. Babbon, sitting opposite, 
was conscious of very disagreeable sensations as he looked 
at his visitor. He liked not that hissing laugh. Nor was it 
easy to restrain himself at sight of Gridly’s boots perching 
upon his parlor table. Neither did he wish to see those pen- 
dulums of tobacco juice swinging beneath Gridly’s chin. 
Indeed he would have preferred never to see Gridly at all. 
He detested him and felt contaminated by his presence, and, 
as he sat there, he was seized with an impulse to clutch him 
by the throat and choke him, or throw him out, like some 
noxious animal. But their interests were connected, and 
even tangled into a snarl; and, besides, he had learned 
enough of Gridly’s character to know that he was capable of 
becoming a dangerous enemy. And Gridly sat there, dilat- 
ing his foul mouth and hissing, while he read the other’s 
thoughts with his ferret eyes. 

Gridly, what’s the joke?” said Mr. Babbon. “Some- 
thing seems to tickle you exceedingly. But I haven’t found 
this thing any laughing matter for the last year, I can tell 
you.” 

“It’s so funny,” gasped Gridly, between his paroxysms 

of hissing. “It’s so d d funny to think of Carman, 

Spelter & Co. walking up to the mark and planking down 
the cash.” 

“Oh, yes, to be sure! ” replied Mr. Babbon. “Carman, 
Spelter & Co. will feel rather funny I fancy, when they have 
to toe the mark after all the fuss they’ve made, all the money 
they’ve spent, and all the shuffling they’ve done to slip 
out and get clear of it.” 

“Yes,” said Gridly, “when they do walk up and plank 
down the cash; when they do,” and, forthwith, he hissed 
himself purple. The tone of this remark grated on Mr. 
Babbon ’s ear, and Gridly’s hissing troubled him more than 
ever. 

“Well,” said he, “I haven’t found it a very funny thing 
to furnish the money for these greedy lawyers, and bear all 
the expense of litigating this infernal case. Nothing funny 
about that, I can tell you.” 


52 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“As per contract, Mr. Babbon,” put in Gridly, -with a 
twinlile of his little mean eyes, “as per said contract, between 
John Babbon, party of the first, and Peter Gridly, party of 
the second part.” 

“Yes, yes; I know,” the other impatiently answered. 
“But I don’t understand what you meant. Do you mean to 
say Carman, Spelter & Co. won’t pay up now? ” 

“Of course,” said Gridly. “That’s just exactly what I 
mean. Don’t you know better than to believe a railroad 
company is going to pay anything if they can worm out of 
it? Railroad companies ain’t so simple ; and, if they w'ere. 
Carman, Spelter & Co. ain’t. They’ll keep us running round, 
filing bills, and seiwing notices, taking depositions, and 
collecting evidence, as long as they can. If they can’t kick 
up, they’ll kick down, if they can’t jump this way, they’ll 
jump that, if they can’t ride, they’ll go afoot, and if they 
can’t go afoot, they’ll crawl like snakes, but what they'll 
put off settlement. We've got our judgment, Mr. Babbon, 
but it’s another thing to get our money. The fact is, it’s a 
regular game. Carman, Spelter & Co. are in a double- 
corner, and we’ve got to work away till we wear ’em down 
to their very last wiggle.” 

Mr. Babbon ’s cheerfulness vanished at the prospect of 
endless lawsuits. 

“That means more money is wanted,” said he. “I sup- 
pose I must raise more funds, to keep up the fight. Not 
easy to do, either. I tell you it’s a terrible strain on a man’s 
resources to pacify these insatiable lawyers.” 

“ As per contract,” replied Gridly, with a silent chuckle ; 
“as per contract, between John Babbon, party of the first, 
and Peter Gridly, party of the second part.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” replied the other, “but I tell you 
what, Gridly, I’ve a mind to sell out, and get clear of this 
confounded load before it breaks me down. I never ouo'ht 
to have undertaken it. It’s too much for me to carry.” 

It was Gridly’s turn to feel uneasy, for he had plans 
which might not prosper in case Mr. Babbon should sell his 
interest. He looked around with habitual caution, to see that 
no one was listening, and then closed the door. 

“I suppose,” said he, as he resumed his seat, “every man 
ought to know best about his own business. Now my in- 


rONfS FATUUS. 


r)3 

terest in this speculation is small compared to yours. Five 
thousand dollars covers it, but five thousand dollars couldn’t 
buy it to-day, nor twice five thousand, cash down. A man 
may have his sound reasons for a certain course or he may 
not ; but, in this matter, I have got my solid reasons.” 

Here he stopped, and waited for the other to ask what his 
solid reasons were for not selling for cash, if he should have 
a chance. And, Mr. Babbon having asked the question, he 
continued : 

“ I may say I have my three reasons. First, here’s a cer- 
tain judgment against certain parties, that is. Carman, 
Spelter & Co., and in favor of certain other parties, that is, 
John Babbon and Peter Gridly, in a certain cause, rendered 
after due process, and in due form, by a certain judge in a 
certain court.” 

‘‘Well, I declare!” exclaimed Mr. Babbon, “you’re get- 
ting to be quite a lawyer yourself. You’ve got the lingo, 
and that’s the most important part of the science. Judge, 
jury and clients, — tautology can beat them all.” 

“And said judgment,” continued Gridly, “so rendered 
by said certain judge, in said certain court, in said certain 
cause, is sure to be collected in due time, or as soon there- 
after as may in the opinion of this deponent be practicable, 
and by due process of law. And until said judgment, so 
rendered by said judge as aforesaid, in said cause, in said 
court, be collected by due process of law, as aforesaid, said 
judgment is drawing a good rate of interest and is, therefore, 
a good investment of my money.” 

“ Better and better ! ” cried Mr. Babbon, with ironical en- 
thusiasm. “I manage to see the point yet, but a few more 
doses would knock me blind.” 

“•In the second place,” said Gridly, “I don’t want 
Carman, Spelter & Co. to pay up. I’d rather they wouldn’t 
pay the first cent.” 

“Gridly, liow’s that?” demanded Mr. Babbon. “You 
don’t want them to settle I What do you mean by that? ” 

Gridly threw an involuntary, cautious glance around the 
room. 

“It isn’t best to talk too loud,” said he. “You never 
know who hears you. But I mean just what I say. I don’t 
want Carman, Spelter & Co. to pay us one red cent, and I 


51 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


guess you’ll say so too. See here ! Carman, Spelter & Co. 
will be dev’lish anxious to pay, byme-bye, but 1 hope they 
won’t be able. Because, in that case we’ll manage to get the 
road into our own hands, and run it on our own account till 
we get our money out of it. And won’t we milk it ! Don’t 
you see a good thing there f Don’t you want some of the 
cream? But, hold on ! There’s a third reason, and that is 
this. Carman, Spelter & Co. think they’ve used us up. 
Old Spelter said to counsel he thought Babb had had enough 
of it, and Gridly too. He guessed they was pretty well 
fagged out, and it wouldn’t be long before they’d have to 
knock under. Now I want to show Carman, Spelter & Co. ’ 
that Mr. Babbon and Peter Gridly are not used up and leon't 
knock under. Don’t 3^011 say so ? Don’t you feel some pride 
in the motter?” 

Gridly’s three reasons made their impression, and Gridly, 
watching the other’s countenance closely, continued : 

“Still, if you think you would like to sell, I don’t know 
but I might find a party who’d negotiate for whatever rights, 
titles, claims, interests, liens, etc., etc., you may have in and 
to said judgment. I think I know a party who’d like to turn 
a snug little sum.” 

“No, Gridly,” said Mr. Babbon, in his usual determined 
voice, “I won’t sell. I’ll fight this thing through to the bit- 
ter end. I’ll let Carman, Spelter & Co. know John Babbon 
isn’t ready to back out yet. If they want more law they 
shall have it, — all they want of it.” 

“That’s the talk,” said Gridley. “It’s the only way to 
deal with these railroad men. I say, let Carman, Spelter & 
Co. root away at the law, and byme-bye we’ll see who hops 
onto the profits.” 

Hereupon Mr. Gridly leaned back again, and hissed till the 
pendulums, swinging from his beard, &’oke, and fell upon his 
bosom. 

“Come, Gridly,” said Mr. Babbon, “what’s our next 
move? You are sharp.” 

“That’s the nub I’m coming at,” replied Gridly. “But 
it ain’t me that’s sharp ; it’s counsel. I’m dull as" a booby, 
and all in a muddle on these motters ; I can’t see head nor 
tail to ’em. But counsel is keen as a brier, and he’s put me 
up to new taotics. He says our next move is to apply for a 


IGNIS FA THUS. 


receiver ; out he thought I’d better get your opiniou. Coun- 
sel’s got a good deal of respect for your opinion. I can’t 

give much help in planning. D n it, my brain never 

was very bright on such things, anyhow, and I believe it’s 
growing muddier every day. But, all right ; you and coun- 
sel are sharp enough to lay the pipes. You two make up a 
team that Carman, Spelter & Co. can’t beat. And I know 
you’ll look out for our joint interests as against counsel. 
The most I can do is in the way of serving notices, collecting 
evidence, &c., &c., while you attend to the thinking. You 
manage the head-work and I’ll pull in the traces. I ain’t a 
bit self -conceited. I never brag on my brain. And I am 
satisfied to have you steer our ship.” 

Gridly’s language was intended to have a quieting effect. 

“I think our counsel is right,” replied Mr. Babbon. 
“There’s no doubt the best thing we can do is to apply for a 
receiver as soon as possible. When are you going West, 
Gridly?” 

“I start to-night,” said Gridly, “and I guess I’d better 
see counsel, soon as I get there, and tell him to go ahead, 
hadn’t I?” 

“Yes, tell him to crowd them up,” replied Mr. Babbon; 
“tell him to shove them right along ! Gridly, do you need 
any funds?” 

He knew very well that Gridly always wanted funds, but 
for some reason he thought proper to forestall the expected 
demand. 

“Yes,” said the other, “I do want a little money, just 
now. In fact I don’t see how I can get along without five or 
six liundred.” 

Mr. Babbon left the room, and came back with h check 
which he handed to his visitor, saying : 

“Make it go as far as you can, Gridly ! ” 

“Of course, Mr. Babbon,” Gridly returned ; “of course I 
shall. But you furnish it according to contract, you know ; 
as per said contract between John Babbon, party of the first 
part, and Peter Gridly — ” 

“Yes, certainly,” Mr. Babbon hurriedly interposed; 
“that’s all right; and while you’re on the ground you’d bet- 
ter take a trip over the road and see how they’re doing, and 
whetlier they keep up the rolling-stock in good order.” 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


5r, 


“ — party of the second part,” resumed Gridly, taking up 
the thread of his discourse where the other had snapped it. 
‘‘And now, Mr. Babbon, unless you think of some other 
points to be talked over, I guess I’ll be going.” 

No further subject came up that required their joint con- 
sideration, and Gridly took his departure. But Mr. Babbon 
sat in his parlor, reflecting. Gridly had been formerly em- 
ployed by a man who had contracted to build a certain q)or- 
tion of a Western railroad for Carman, Spelter & Co. The 
contract was broken by Carman, Spelter & Co., suit for 
damages was brought against them , and Gridly received a small 
interest in the claim, as compensation for services rendered in 
building the road. Carman, Spelter & Co. defended them- 
selves with ability, carrying the case from one court to 
another, and contesting every point, until the plaintiffs could 
go no further, for lack of means. At this juncture Gridly 
fell in with Mr. Babbon and succeeded in getting him inter- 
ested. Mr. Babbon bought out Gridly’ s employer, received 
an assignment of all his rights, and undertook to prosecute 
the case against Carman, Spelter & Co. This he had done 
with great energy until all his property was involved ; and 
at last, he had obtained a judgment from which there 
was no appeal. The burden had proved quite as heavy as 
he could bear. Its many vexations, its bitter disappoint- 
ments, and its crushing expenses, he had met with character- 
istic resolution ; and now that the fruit of his perseverance 
seemed almost within reach, he experienced a feeling of se- 
curity to which he had long been a stranger. But there was 
something in Gridly’s demeanor that made him uneasy. 
And yet he could not discover that the latter had any advan- 
tage over him. Besides, Gridly’s interest was small and, so 
far as he knew, he had always acted honestly. Then, too, 
Gridly, relied so much on him and, by his own confession, 
was stupid in legal matters. He seemed perfectly content to 
leave Mr*. Babbon to plan, while he himself performed the 
drudgery or, as he expressed it, pulled in the traces ; all of 
wliich was re-assuring. The more Mr. Babbon thought of it 
the better he felt. 

“No,” he said to himself, “I won’t give up. I’d be a 
fool to sell' out when it looks brighter than ever, and 1 don’t 
doubt there ’d be plenty of buyers to jump at the chance. 


IGNIS FATUUS. 


57 


But, now I’ve cracked the nut, I’ll have the kernel. Griclly 
hit it exactly when he asked if I haven’t some pride in the 
matter. I have a good deal, and I’ll make Carman, Spelter 
& Co. feel it, before I get through. Rascally scoundrels, 
every one of them ! Railroad company ! Humph ! I say 
they’re a pack of thieves and swindlers. But I’ll let them 
know John Babbon isn’t used up yet. Railroad company ! 
Humph ! A band of sharpers and black-legs, licensed to 
rob and slaughter the people ! But I’ll see whether they can 
rob John Babbon. Carman, Spelter & Co. ! A company of 
cheats — twisting, and dodging, and wriggling, and squirm- 
ing, every way in the world, to avoid paying their honest 
debts. But I’ll spike them down. I’ll put the screws on, 
till they stop their antics.” 

“ Well ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon, in a most exasperating 
voice, as she entered the parlor. “Well! Mr. Babbon, has 
your vile friend gone ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, my dear,” returned Mr. Babbon, not at all exas- 
perated, “that vile individual has taken his departure.” 

With a silent petition that she might remain calm, the 
worthy lady continued, “ Look there, Mr. Babbon ! Look on 
my carpet! Isn’t that a delightful token of your friend’s 
presence? Are you not proud of such acquaintances?” 

Mr. Babbon looked anything but proud, as his wife pointed 
to the stains of tobacco juice on the carpet. 

“Do you know what I would do with such a beast?” pur- 
sued his wife. “If he must come in, I would hang a spit- 
toon round his neck the very moment he crossed my 
threshold.” 

“It is too bad !” exclaimed Mr. Babbon. “ It’s an out- 
rage on all decency, and I don’t wonder you complain.” 

^‘^Complain !” echoed Mrs. Babbon, in unbounded sur- 
prise. “I complain ! Never. Whatever I may suffer, it is in 
silence. That infamous villain might sit in this parlor for- 
ever and flood it from carpet to cornice, provided I could see 
you once cut loose from him.” 

“I don’t court his acquaintance,” expostulated Mr. Bab- 
bon. “ / don’t want him here. But, involved with him as I 
am, in this infernal litigation — ” 

“Mr. Babbon!” cried his wife, in a hollow voice, “pro- 
fanity, from your lips, is something I never expected to 
hear. — sometiiing I can not endure.” 


58 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Well, my clear,” he resumed, “involved as I am with 
him, in this troublesome litigation, it won’t do to treat him 
rudely ; I must not make him an enemy. But I detest him 
as much as you do. Let me once finish this business and 
he’ll have to keep his distance, I promise you.” 

“Ah! that’s it, Mr. Babbon ; that is returned Mrs. 
Babbon, “you’ve forged your own fetters and allowed him 
to bind them on. I begged, and besought, and warned you 
to have nothing to do with that man. But did you listen ? 
No ; for you was infatuated with Mammon.” 

“But, my dear, he brings good news,” Mr. Babbon made 
haste to reply. “It looks brighter than ever ; a certainty I 
call it now.” 

To which Mrs. Babbon, like some prophetess of evil, 
mournfully croaked, “Mr. Babbon, it is an ignis fatuus. It 
will lead you and your innocent family to ruin. ” 


CHAPTEE IV. 

VISITING-DAY IN THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 

In Deacon Biggot’s district-school the respective seasons of 
skates and sleds, of kites and base-ball, of marbles, and of 
mumble-peg, marked the prime divisions of the year. But 
through them all the master paced his usual rounds. Nor 
was his zeal abated, though he could not fail to see that the 
vineyard of his labors brought forth only thorns and thistles. 
Fully persuaded that Jackedo was possessed with an evil 
spirit, he ceased not from his efforts to cast it out with 
prayer and rebuke, with vituperation and with the lash. 
And every day the hapless Brand spent no inconsiderable 
portion of his time in trying to tan the skin of his palms with 
rosin, vainly hoping to render them callous to the daily 
thrashing which he had learned to expect as a disagreeable 
blit indispensable part of his education. Day after^day the 
weary Low-benchers dangled their short legs, and stretched 
their necks to gain refreshing glimpses of sunny fields, or 
beguiled the tedious hours with blissful reveries, while Hio-h- 
benchers stored up perennial hatred in their hearts, sustmn- 


VTSTTING-DAY TN THE DTSTRICT-SCITOOL. 


59 


iijg themselves with hopes of future vengeance. But the 
summer wore away, and at length came that day so fraught 
with anxiety and delight,— tbe last of the term and the day 
of examination. Visiting-day it was called by the pupils, 
perhaps because it was so closely associated in their memory 
with periodical visitations of various torments. In the morn- 
ing the boys and girls were assembled on the playground, 
waiting for the summons to their seats. 

“ One thing I know,” remarked the Brand, with profound 
and melancholy conviction ; ‘ ‘ sOme of us will ketch fits 
to-day. I seen it in his eye.” 

The Brand’s testimony was believed unimpeachable in 
matters of that sort, as he was known to have golden oppor- 
tunities for studying the deacon’s moods, as well as rich ex- 
perience. No one ventured to dispute him. 

“ But if you want to get the trembles^'' he continued, with 
a morbid appetite for horrors, “ just think of Mr. Baldhead 
Visitor! Think of five of ’em all at once, — bearing down 
on you with their goggles an’ a-putting out words to spell ! ” 

“I’m all right on spelling,” declared one, with traces of 
unhappy presentiments on his countenance. “ My trouble is 
longitudes and archipelagos. If they get me there, I’m 
gone.” 

“I’m awful weak on such things, too,” returned the 
Brand, “ but what lays me straight out an’ keeps me there, is 
long diwision. I’m gay on addition, but when you come to 
long diwision, — oh, go ’way ! ” 

And, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets, he 
spun around on one heel, intimating that his audience might 
disperse, for he was incompetent to describe the difficulties 
of long division. 

“Why don’t you play hookey, all day?” another in- 
quired. 

“That’s just wot I would,” replied the Brand, “ only it 
wouldn’t be no use. You know he’s got me where he can 
get up any time, day or night, and put his talons on me. If 
1 had any place to run to, hookey is just wot I’d play, — for 
good an’ all.” 

“We’re all right on spelling,” cried another; “ lo»k 
here ! ” and he exhibited a soiled, well-worn paper. Then, 
glancing about to assure himself that the deacon was not 


V. 


<■>0 A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 

wiiliin ear-shot, he explained in a low tone of cautious 
triumph : 

‘‘Every time they come they stick to the same words. 
Eve took ’em all down. Here they be. Icthyologist ! ” A 
murmur of dismay arose from the entire throng. ''' Knitthig- 
needle! Penknife! Pincushion !” (Renewal of the mur- 
muring.) ^’‘Tyrant!’’ (An expression of thorough com- 
l)reheusion on every faee.) ’‘’‘Peripatetics!'^ (Gloomy 
forebodings depicted bn the countenance of the Brand.) 
'’‘Tiger!" (Audible speculation on the part of Low- 
benchers and inexpressible scorn on the part of every High- 
bencher.) “ Whortleberry ! " (Sudden revulsion of feeling 
among High-benchers and vacant bewilderment among the 
Low-benchers.) ^’‘Sturgeon!" (Increasing despondency 
among the High-benchers and demonstrations of idiocy among 
the Low-benchers.) ’‘’‘Washing-machine! " (Faint mani- 
festations of relief and breathless expectation. ^^Bureau! " 
(Sudden and universal gloom.) Then all the High-benchers 
copied the words, except the Brand, who, being quite as 
weak in chirography as he was in orthography, christened 
one finger Icthyologist, another Tyrant, and soon, till the list 
was exhausted by naming his right heel Tiger. Over and 
over he spelled them, from oral insti-uction, using his best 
endeavor to fix them in his memory. 

“They’re stingers,” he muttered. “So many old coves 
a- flashing at 3^11 with their lanterns, an’ doing their best to 
make you cave in. I know just how they come it. I’ve 
seen 'em do it many a time. Just so soon as 3^11 begin to 
slip off the track they begin to look most almighty^ pleasant ; 
an’ then they say, ‘ v-e-r-y good, v-e-r-y good,’ to kind 
o’ prop you up, so they can let you drop good an’ solid when 
you do come down.” 

At that moment was heard the clattering summons of the 
master’s ruler, and away rushed the pupils for their seats ; 
tlie short-legged Low-benchers bringing up the rear as 
usual, and receiving the expected stroke behind, as they scud- 
ded through the door with concave backs and stomachs pro- 
jecting almost to spherical convexity. The exercises of the 
morning consisted chiefly of rehearsals and other preparations 
for the expected visitors, diversified with an occasional 
“ ])ringing up ” of some culprit by the deacon, with what he 


VISITING-DA Y IN THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


Gl 


was wont to call his “ round-turn.” The denizens of the 
low-bench were instructed to sit with their toes in line and 
their hands folded over their stomachs, mute and motionless 
as statues. High-benchers were drilled to whirl in concert 
to an about-face position, like wooden automatons sittin'g on 
well oiled pivots and revolving by steam power. There was 
a sweeping confiscation of pin-boxes, pop-guns, and fly-hives. 
One presumptuous Low-bencher who had the folly to ask if 
he might go out, and the sagacit}^ to drum with both fists 
upon tlie region where he ought to have kept his hands 
folded, was told that he could not, but that he might pick 
the warts off the clock’s face if that would do just as well. 
And this scintillation of the deacon’s wit was greeted with 
gratifying but sycophantic applause. The pupils were ad- 
monished to go out as much as they Tvanted to, during the in- 
termission, inasmuch as they could not expect to leave the 
school-room while the visitors were there; and* at this un- 
welcome counsel 'the Low-benchers, who werealwaj^s wanting 
to go out, looked sorrowfully at each other and dashed their 
knees together, while a contagious, bantering cough r;xn 
through the ranks of the Lligh-benchers. But the deacon re- 
marked that he had an excellent cough-remedy, — one which 
he had never known fail to cure the worst cough a boy ever 
had in less than one minute; and it was astonishing to see 
how quick the epidemic ceased its ravages at the bare men- 
tion of that powerful specific. The room was swept and 
garnished. Every bit of paper and every straw was cleared 
from the floor. From the miniature black-board the chalk- 
marks were erased. The tattered books were arranged in 
orderly piles, and bootless efforts were made to scour away 
the splashes of ink on the walls. At twelve o’clock all 
hastened home, except those who came from a distance and 
)))-ought their dinner; and at the end of an hour they 
swarmed back to their places at the master’s signal. The 
Brand kept his eyes riveted upon an open book, and was to 
all appearance deeply engaged in the mysteries of long divi- 
sion. Without turning his head he cautiously whispered: 

“ Dan, must we speak pieces to them old coves? ” 

With equal caution Dan replied, “Why, yes. Didn’t 3mu 
hear him say so? ” 

“ I don’t know any ; I wish’t you’d pick me out one,” re- 


C2 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


turned tbe Brand. , “Kind o’ short an’ eas}^,” he further 
requested; “one like ‘Wengeance Calls You,’ or ‘My 
Father’s at the Helium.’ One o’ those kind.” • 

Dan looked over his book with a critical eye, and presently 
placed it before his neighbor, pointing to a few stanzas 
commencing : 


“ How doth the little busy bee 
* Improve the shining hour ! ” 

— and whispering as he pointed, “ Here you are. Short and 
easy as A-B-C.” 

The other read it through with a highly appreciative coun- 
tenance and, when he had finished, his enthusiastic comment 
was “It’s gay ! ” Thereupon he began to rock forwards and 
back, laboring to commit it to memory. 

“Not but wot I might slip up on it,” he murmured, 
“afore two shinin’ hours are over.” 

The deacon rested his elbows on the table, covering his 
face with both hands as though engaged in silent prayer. 

“A gum-game ! ” whispered the suspicious Brand. “Kee’ 
still, Dan ; don’t let him fool you ! ” 

The Low-benchers gradually settled themselves into more 
comfortable positions, and wildly smote their knees together, 
and mocked each other with furious grimaces, while reckless 
High-benchers began to develop fresh pimples on the face of 
the clock. No long time elapsed, however, before an enter- 
prising Low-bencher was sudden l}^ petrified, in the act of per- 
forming upon an imaginary hand-organ, by a baleful green 
eye glaring at him in ambush, and was straightway attacked 
by a deeply-penitential cough. But a providential knock 
brought the deacon to a perpendicular posture and cheated 
him of his prey. At a warning gesture all the Low-benchers 
shut up their weary legs like tongs, pointed their toes at the 
prescribed line, and clasped their hands over their stomachs, 
while the High-benchers executed a half-revolution upon 
their invisible pivots. The deacon then opened the door and 
admitted five old gentlemen. These deposited their hats on 
the master’s table with painful deliberation, and then, depos- 
iting thejnselves in a row of chairs, polished their spectacles 
with unwearying industry while they surveyed their field. 


VISITIKC-DAY IK THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


03 


•* Perhaps,” said the deacon, when his visitors were fairly 
seated, “ we had better proceed with the exercises.” 

d'o which one of the committee replied, ‘‘ Proceed, Deacon 
Biggot ; proceed, sir, if you please ! ’’ 

Accordingly the several classes in reading were called in 
turn, and the copy-books were submitted to inspection. 
Then the young geographers stumbled over mountains, floun- 
dered in seas and lakes, wallowed in Swamps, wrecked them- 
selves on promontories, staggered over boundaries, sought 
oblivion in caves, stranded on reefs and quite lost their reck- 
oning in deserts, to the unalloyed delight of the Brand, who 
discovered that many were even more feeble than himself in 
that branch of knowledge, and to the unqualified discomfort 
of the deacon, whose chief regret was that he had not brought 
them up more frequently, and more effectively, with his fa- 
vorite round-turn. Next came the classes in arithmetic and, 
escaping by a lucky chance the difficulties of long division, 
the Brand had an opportunity to display his gaiety in addi- 
tion. As the young mathematicians sat in a disconsolate row, 
after finishing their examples, awaiting their own turn to be 
finished by the old gentlemen, the deacon blandly inquired: 
“Would any of the committee like to question the class? ” 
The visitors tuned their throats and looked at one another 
with glances of courteous deference, and then, turning their 
eyes along the row of anxious faces, two of them simultaue- 
ously remarked : 

“There’s just one — ” and halted to exchange gracious 
smiles and apologetic nods. Each politely requested the 
other to take precedence and, after mutual forbearance and 
an expectant silence of several moments, both observed in 
one breath : 

“There’s just one — ” and coming to an abrupt, spiteful 
halt, challenged each other with acrimonious bows and dis- 
dainfully poUshed theii spectacles. The others instantly as- 
sumed the part of seconds, and by appreciatives miles and an 
interchange of eloquent glances secretly strove to goad on 
their principals, while the hearts of the Low-benchers beat 
high with hope as they noted signs of dissension in the 
enemy’s camp. But those hopes were soon blighted. Sud- 
denly one of the old gentlemen remarked : 

“I will merely ask a single question, sir, by your leave. 


Gl 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


und then yield to you with pleasure. It is this. What is 
the differeuce between six dozen dozen, and half a dozen 
dozen? Now can any of my 3’oung friends tell me what the 
difference between six dozen dozen and half a dozen 
dozen?” 

“ Nothing I ” shouted all his young enemies in triumphant 
chorus, and then all looked exceedingly crestfallen, while the 
visitor regarded them with placid gratification and informed 
them that the answer was not quite correct. 

“But that one was difficult,” said he, completely ignoring 
him in whose favor he had promised to give way, and thereby 
furnishing fresh employment to the seconds. “Now here is 
something easier. If a red apple and a half cost a cent and 
a half, how much will a dozen cost?” 

^ ‘ Eighteen cents ! ’ ’ screamed the chorus ; ‘ ‘ red cents ! 
red cents!’' 

Then all the visitors smiled and looked very happy, except 
him who had been ignored, and who had surrendered himself 
to devouring jealousy. 

“And a half! an’ a half I ” vociferated the shifty chorus 
once more, instantly made aware of error by the pleasure 
evinced by the committee. 

“Perhaps, if we repeat the question in a different form, 
they will find it easier to solve,” remarked the author of the 
problem, “and there (pointing to Jackedo) is a little boy 
who can give the correct answer, I think.” 

The Brand would have staked his life on the opinion that, 
if he bad thought so, he would have selected somebody else. 

“Now then,” resumed the old gentleman, “suppose a 
boy is an expert fly-catcher, (the Brand had one imprisoned, 
at that moment, in the fold of a forefinger joint) and sup- 
[)ose he catches them at the rate of a fly and a half eveiy 
minute and a half. How many will he have in an hour? ” 

Suspicious of pitfalls, the Brand warily inquired, “Do 
hoss-flies count two ? ’ ’ 

Uncertain whether this was innocence or impudence, the 
visitor sternly answered, “Every fly counts one.” 

But, with an eye to gaining time, the cautious Brand ad- 
vanced the reasonable though irrelevant hypothesis : 

“If it wos sunny, they’d be hot an’ shy; but, if it wos 
cloudy an’ chilW, they’d be tame an’ easy to nab.” 


VISITING-DAY IN THE DISTRICT-SOJIOOL. G5 

‘‘I’hat has nothing to do with the question,” the old gen- 
tleman testily replied. “I say he catches a fly and a half 
every minute and a half ; now tell me how many he would 
have in an hour!” 

‘‘ Wol, if he had somebody to pin ’em down, fast as he 
nabbed ’em,” the Brand returned, carefully guarding against 
deductions on account of escape, “ he’d have sixty.” 

Whereupon watchful Low-benchers, reading discomfiture 
oil the countenance of the visitor, scoffed at him within their 
hearts and mocked him, unseen, with facial contortions which 
they believed laden with deadly insult. In reply to the dea- 
con’s question whether he would continue the examination, 
or whether he should proceed with other exercises, the old 
gentleman replied : 

“ Proceed, Deacon Biggot, proceed if you please.” 

Accordingly the class was dismissed. Others were called 
in turn, and systematically badgered by the old gentlemen. 
The slow hours dragged along. High-benchers sat and re- 
volved upon their imaginary pivots with swelling hearts, 
feeding their perennial hatred, and mentally coining defama- 
tory epithets, while Low-benchers grew reckless of the ruler, 
wildly dashed their knees together, and smote themselves re- 
doubled blows ; — till at length came the time for reading 
compositions. 

“ Number one,” said the deacon, “ you may begin.” 

Number one arose and unfolded a half sheet of paper, 
while the committee brought their spectacles to a high polish, 
and, replacing them upon their noses with blighting effect, 
scrutinized him closely. 

“On the Elephant,” he faintly piped. “Here is the pic- 
ture of an elephant. He can walk, trobor run ; ” 

But whatever ideas the boy had collected with regard to 
that particular mammal were never promulgated by him, 
beyond the bare fact that he could walk, trot, or run. One 
of the old gentlemen hastily approached, looked at the sheet 
of paper, and then insi>ected the young naturalist’s face with 
a most embarrassing gaze, while he austerely inquired : 

“ ^Vl^eTe is the picture of the elephant? ” 

The boy instantly became conscious of a fatal oversight in 
not copying the wood-cut that adorned the page from which 
be had transcribed his essay, and was overwhelmed with 
confusion. 


GG 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ AVhere is i\iQi elephant? ” again demanded the old gen- 
tleman, pressing his advantage. The boy cast down his eyes 
and whined : 

“In a picture-book.” And then with a penitent air of 
full confession he added, “ Fighting a rhinoceros ! ” 

“We have heard enough about that elephant,” returned 
the old gentleman. “Yon may sit down now, and, hence- 
forth, never attempt to palm, off plagiarisms in this school! ” 

With that stern reprimand the visitor returned to his seat, 
while the boy sank upon the bench, a prey to shame, and the 
good deacon endeavored to mollify the old gentleman by 
saying : 

“ William, you may remain after school. I will show yon 
the elephant.” 

“ Certainly. By all means,” assented the committee, with 
a view to upholding strict discipline. Whereat, the trembling 
culprit devoutly wished himself upon that elephant, some- 
where in the jungles of Ceylon. Other compositions were 
read,“ On the Horse,” “ On the Cow,” “ On the Cat,” “ On 
the Dog,” and so forth, until long after every domestic ani- 
mal had been made a beast of burden. Hext came declama- 
tions. One after another the young orators took their places, 
looked sheepishly about, and droned off a few stanzas. 
“►Speaking pieces,” this exercise was called, and its ultimate 
purpose w'as to tit the boys for the pulpit or the rostrum. 
Last of all Jackedo w^as summoned, and, putting on his 
boldest face, he walked into the pit. The eyes that con- 
verged on him had a bewildering effect. But, gazing stead- 
fastly upon the floor, he made his bow and began picking at 
his overalls, while, in an unnaturally high key and with an 
unchanging tone, he chanted: 

“How doth the little boozy bee? ” and there broke down. 
Groping in mental chaos for the next line, he repeated : 

‘ ‘ How doth the little boozy bee ? ’ ’ 

“Pretty well, I thank you ;” replied one of the old gentle- 
men, with trenchant politeness. “ Go on with it ! ” 

The Brand now tore furiously at his nether garment, and 
his features were racked with a distressful smile. Again he 
sang : 

“How doth the little boozy bee improve the shining hour ! ” 
and came to a final, hopeless pause. 


VISITING-DAY IN TUB DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


G7 


“ There, there, that’s enough,” cried the deacon, in wrath- 
ful tones. “ I should be glad to see you do half as well as 
the little bee. Now yon can take your seat.” 

Thereupon, the Brand sneaked back, amidst the broad 
grins and stifled taunts of the young sycophants around him, 
completely crushed by a mountain- weight of meanness. The 
programme of the day ended with spelling. One after 
another the Low-benchers failed with calmest indifference, on 
account of being already buried in despair by the fruitless- 
ness of dashing their knees together. But the High-benchers 
baffled their foes by slyly consulting their slips of paper. 
One by one the Brand’s Angers were folded down upon his 
palms, as fast as the words were spelled. The icthyologist 
was established at a tantalizing distance from the sturgeon. 
The tyrant was safely wedged in between the bureau and the 
washing-machine. The penknife, the pincushion, the whor- 
tleberry, and the knitting-needle, were already disposed of. in 
an incongruous row, when the Brand discovered one of the 
visitors looking steadily towards the quarter where he sat. 

“Tiger!” exclaimed the old gentleman, punching the air 
with his forefinger straight at Dan Babbon. 

“ T-i ti, g-e-r ger, tiger!” shouted Dan, and the Brand’s 
right heel was instantly dashed to the floor as if it would 
grind the tiger to dust. The only word left on the list was 
peripatetics and the same was labelled in ink on the second 
finger of the Brand’s left hand. A short pause ensued on 
the part of the old gentlemen, and then one of their number, 
who had devoted four or five minutes to staring unmercifully 
at a certain uneasy Low-bencher, remarked that there was a 
word or tw^o that he should like to hear spelled. Wherein 
his sin consisted, or when it had been committed, that un- 
happy Low-bencher could not divine ; but by that merciless 
stare he felt convicted of unpardonable crime. He grew 
more restive, and perspired painfully, while he looked in 
every direction except at that basilisk eye. But the remorse- 
less old gentleman raised his arm with deliberate aim and, 
pointing his long, bony finger toward the writhing j^oungster, 
inquired with scathing irony : 

“Can that little boy spefl unclean-hauds-aud-face ? ” 

The child looked guiltily around at the grinning visages of 
his mates, and turned scarlet. Then he uttered the tearful 


68 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


plea that he hadn’t got so far as that yet ; he’d only gone as 
far as ‘ Baker,’ and surrendered to convulsions of shame. 

“ That’s the meanest I ever seen,” muttered the indignant 
Brand. “I’d like one good burn at him, back o’ the ear. 
That’s all I’d ask for.” 

With an uncomfortable sense of having rather overdone 
the matter, the old gentleman inflicted penance upon his 
spectacles. But another, ignorant of his colleague’s self- 
reproach, and emulous of his brilliant success — it was the 
one whom the Brand had defeated and routed on the fly 
problem — observed that there was one little word which he 
should like to hear spelled. It was peripatetics^ and there 
(shooting out his forefinger with sudden virulence at Jackedo) 
was a little boy who could spell it, he thought. The Brand 
gazed steadily at his own left hand, in well-feigned uncon- 
sciousness that he was the youth referred to. 

“ I mean,” continued the old gentleman, assuming his con- 
science-stricken colleague’s method of rebuke,’ and signifi- 
cantly drilling the air with his fang-like nail, “ I mean that 
little boy there whose nose needs wiping.” 

The Brand had gained precious time, but he maneuvered for 
more. Applying his sleeve to the humiliated feature with a 
rapid, filing movement, he inquired what was the word. 

“Peripatetics ! ” the' old gentleman repeated, with a relish- 
ing accent, while the deacon toyed with his ruler and all the 
visitors trained their eye-glasses upon the Brand. High- 
benchers and Low-benchers hung upon the result in breath- 
less silence. The pride of championship nerved the despised 
Brand, and the label on his finger sustained his soul. 

“P-e-r-i, perry, p-a-t, perrypat, e-t, et, perrypatet, 
i-c-s, ix, peripatetics! he vociferated, in a detonating 
voice, and folded it down upon his palm with a snap. Mur- 
murs of admiration rose from the low bench, while the High- 
benchers regarded the common enemy with triumphant eyes, 
and the*^ Brand muttered to himself ; 

“That’s twice I’ve settled him; one an’ one is doubs.” 

That achievement of the Brand’s ended the examination. 
After an exchange of many courteous glances and deferential 
nods, one of the visitors stood up to make a few coiicludino' 
remarks. ° 

He would merely express the gratification, yes, the very 


VISITim^DAY IN THE DISTRICT-SCHOOL. 


69 


great pleasure, he had experienced at seeing that his young 
friends had so well improved the golden hours of that term. 
And no doubt the other respected members of the committee 
would concur with him in that sentiment. (Immediate sig- 
nals of concurrence on the part of the other respected four, 
and silent but eloquent protests on the part of his young- 
foes.) It had been one of the happiest afternoons he had 
ever spent ; for, to Ms eyes, there was no sight more beauti- 
ful, none more engaging.^ than a school-room filled with little 
bo3^s and girls striving for the acquisition of useful knowl- 
edge ; and in this sentiment, too, he had no doubt his hon- 
ored colleagues would most heartily concur. (Assenting 
nods from the honored colleagues, executed in the heartiest 
manner, and cautious demonstrations of dissent by insulted 
High-benchers, who believed themselves fairly entitled to 
classification with large boys and girls.) He remembered, 
perfectly well, when he was a little boy and sat on that same 
bench, studying reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, and 
geography. He remembered, too, how he had burned the 
midnight oil in later years, and his love for science he could 
clearly trace back to that very room. There was the foun- 
tain-head where he had first drank from the Pierian spring. 
(Undeniable doubt expressed on the countenances of the 
honored colleagues, and interrogative glances everywhere on 
the faces of bewildered High-benchers and thirsty Low- 
benchers.) It seemed to him but yesterday. And his young 
friends must remember that time flies on rapid pinions, that 
soon they would be men and women, and their opportunities 
for going to school would be past. (A revelation of supreme 
delight on the face of every living bencher, with manifesta- 
tions of eager longing for that blissful fruition of their 
hopes.) Nobody could tell how many illustrious characters 
of future years were at that moment sitting on those benches. 
’Twas an old saying, to be sure, but true as it was old, that 
tall oaks from little acorns grow. Who knew but this little 
boy might be President of these United States ; or that one 
learn ‘'the applause of list’ning senates to command?” 
Here a second Newton, there another Bacon, might arise. 
(Blind incredulity, and utter indifference to such distinction, 
depicted on the countenance of every mortal bencher.) But 
the old gentleman did not wish to detain his young friends 


70 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


nor to weary their patience. One single remark and he was 
d-yun. He desired to express, as far as he was able to ex- 
press it, his profound satisfaction with the efforts of the kind 
and faithful teacher who was so successfully smoothing their 
pathway up the rugged hill of science. And this sentiment, 
too, he was certain the honored committee would cheerfully 
and unanimously endorse. (An immediate unanimity of 
pantomimic endorsement on the part of the honored commit- 
tee, and an instantaneous and unmistakable, though silent, 
unanimity of thorough repudiation on the part of High- 
benchers and Low-benchers, during which the old gentleman 
sat down.) The respected four were requested to add some- 
thing to what had already been said, and each in turn stated 
that he most heartily concurred with his honored colleague, 
and further than that added nothing. The good deacon ut- 
tered a prayer, and then, with a final whirl of the High- 
benchers, executed in a delirious manner because it was final, 
the school was dismissed. The pupils all rushed out, except 
one, and gathered around the door with glad shouts, while 
the stately committee walked slowly away. And presently 
number one appeared, proclaiming by his mournful face and 
disordered attire, that he had at last discovered the elephant, 
and had found him no very inviting spectacle. The dea- 
con then came out, locked the door, and departed ; and no 
sooner was he out of sight than vials of wrath that had been 
accumulating for months were poured upon the edifice. 
Against it a score of ink-bottles were dashed. The windows 
were almost demolished, and the sound of falling plaster 
mingled with the clinking of broken glass. It was assaulted 
with clubs, defiled with mud, bombarded with stones. A few 
daring spirits attempted to force the door, and, failing in 
that, spitefully plugged the keyhole, while the Brand circled 
around the building with the Burner uncoiled, mercilessly 
cauterizing it on every side. Raging Low-benchers shook 
their impotent fists at their prison-house, mocked it with in- 
sulting gestures, and stigmatized it with the most degrading 
epithets ; and not till their vengeance had been fully glutted 
did they cease from their noisy demonstrations. Then they 
romped along the roads in merry groups, rejoicing in their 
broken shackles and reveling in the anticipated delights of 
vacation. 


THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 


71 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 

It was the first day of vacation. Dan Babbon and the 
Brand sat in the shade of the Cedars, resting after a long 
tramp through the woods ; and Jackedo’s inseparable com- 
panion lay basking in a patch of sunshine just beyond range 
of his master’s lash. Below them, but hidden by trees, the 
road wound around a rocky ledge that bounded the Cedars, 
and far away behind them stretched hills and valleys covered 
with a dense forest of evergreens. The Brand was fondly 
recapitulating the virtues of his pet, when suddenly both 
sprang up and, running to the edge of the thicket, looked 
down over the cliff with eager attention. In the road stood 
a bullock, coated with dust and sweat, stamping the earth 
and bellowing with rage. His ears were torn to shreds and 
lacerated skin dangled from his cheeks in bloody strips. 
Bevor, the butchers’s savage mastiff, hung at his throat like 
a tiger, nor could all the bullock’s strength unloose his fangs. 
A crowd of men were hurrying to the scene with clubs and 
ropes, crying, “Bevor! Bevor! hold him, Bevor!” The 
bullock made desperate efforts to free himself. Struggling 
to the fence he bounded over into the meadow and back 
again, but the fierce dog never loosed his hold. He then 
strove to toss his enemy and to trample him, but Bevor skil- 
fully avoided every attempt, and sunk his black muzzle 
deeper into his' victim’s throat until, exhausted by his frantic 
struggles and by loss of blood, the beast stood still, bellow- 
ing piteously. 

“Look at Bevor!” cried the excited Bi»and. “How gay 
be sinks his tushes in ! Look at Mr. Ox ! See him trem- 
ble ! ” 

The bullock was now tethered and a rope was secured to 
each horn. But Bevor still held fast, despite the commands 
and blows of his master ; nor did he let go, till a noose was 
passed around his neck and he was dragged off by main 


72 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


strength. The crowd urged the recaptured animal back to 
the slaughter-house whence he had escaped, but Bevor, cov- 
ered with blood, lay panting by the fence, and no amount of 
coaxing could make him stir. The Brand fastened his whip- 
lash to Purp’s collar, and then, fearful of attracting Bevor ’s 
notice, the two boys moved cautiously off through the woods, 
turning their steps homeward. 

“Iwish’t Purp had been there,” exclaimed the Brand. 
“I’d like to see him give that ox just about one shake. He’s 
mighty small an’ thin, that dog is, but awful gritty. But I 
tell you wot would suit me better. To see Bewor tackle old 
Big. It would be gay luck for me ; an’ if I wos there, I’d 
make Purp gnaw his ear. If he dared let go, I’d burn him 
till he froze on again. But it isn’t no use. No such luck 
won’t never come to me.” 

“I wouldn’t set any dog on him,” returned Dan. “But 
I’d like to be old enough to give him one good, square 
licking.” 

“Just like you did Pinchey,” exclaimed the enthusiastic 
Brand. “How gay ’twould be ! I bet you could almost do 
it now.” 

“One thing I’m going to remember,” replied Dan, “and 
some day I’m going to thrash him for it. That’s for whip- 
ping Phoebe Young.” 

The Brand stared at his companion a moment and then ex- 
claimed : 

“Say ! I just bet you an’ her have fell in love. I do, by 
Gum ! Own up, now, own up ; — I see it in your eye ! ” 

“Well, what of it?” said Dan. “But you needn’t blow 
it all round among the fellows.” 

“ That’s why you’ve kep’ steering this way all the time,” 
returned the Brand, as though he had' suddenly found the so- 
lution of some puzzling question. “That’s lY, my honey. 
You wanted to come out on the road near her house, an’ get 
a glimpse of her.* See ! there’s her house, now ! How gay 
I’ve found you out ! ” 

The two came forth from the forest of cedars to the brink 
of the ledge, and stood there looking across the road at Miss 
Martin’s house. After a moment’s silence, the Brand re- 
marked : 

“ Wol, I love Phoebe, too.” 


THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 


73 


“You !” cried Dan, with scornful emphasis. 

“Yes, me,” replied the Brand. “Me, my own self, — a 
firebrand an’ a flinty-hearted little cove, — a Gallio an’ n 
child o’ Satan. I own up I love her.” 

A fiery light sparkled in the other’s eyes. “Look here ! ” 
he cried. “ You’ve got to quit it.” 

“Dan, I bet j^ou’d hit me,” said the Brand. 

“No I wouldn’t,” replied Dan, with a countenance whicli 
belied his words, “but then you’ve got to quit that sort of 
thing, you know.” 

“How much do you love her?” demanded the Brand. 
“Come now ; w^ot would you do for her?” 

With inexpressible earnestness, Dan replied : 

“I would die for her.” 

“ Wol,” remarked the Brand, slowly and thoughtfully, “ J 
bet I would, too. We’re eveii there. I bet I’d do it an’ call 
it a gay thing, — gay as that little covey on the burning 
deck. How mad you be, Dan ! You’d sail into me now, if 
I wosn’t so small an’ stunted. Put Phoebe is mighty kind 
to me, an’ almost everybody else has kind o’ kep’ me down. 
I love her like she wos a angel. But I bet she’s fell in love 
with you. I’d like one chance though, to do something- 
almighty gay, to show her wot a firebrand an’ a child o’ 
Satan could do.” 

The Brand suddenly ceased and, grasping his companion’s 
arm, peered down through the leaves and branches of a 
chestnut tree that grew hear the foot of the ledge. 

» How green I feel!” he whispered; and Dan, gazing 
down, saw Phoebe herself with a little basket in her hand, 
searching for nuts, and confessing by her blushes that then- 
conversation had been overheard. 

“No use to play we wos talking about somebody else,” the 
Brand again whispered. “Too late for a gum-game.” Then 
he called out, “Hullo ! Phoebe, how many have you got? ” 

Phoebe, looking up with well-feigned surprise, cried : 

“Oh, Jackey, is it you,— and Dan? I can’t find many; 
but there’s plenty up in the tree, and they look splendid up 
there.” 

“I’ll bring them down for you, Phoebe,” said Dan ; “I’d 
love to do it.” 

With that, the two boys clambered down the rough ledge. 


74 


4 YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ I’d rather you wouldn’t,” urged Phoebe, as Dan laid off 
his coat. “Think if you should fall! No, don’t go up 
there, Dan I ” 

Dan’s face flushed with bashfiilness and with pleasure, 
and, after those few words, he would have climbed the tree 
had it been girt with fire. Quickly swinging himself up on a 
branch that hung near the ground, in spite of Phoebe’s re- 
monstrance lie went from limb to limb till he reached the top; 
and Phoebe, looking up at his glowing cheeks, called out : 

“Dan, isn’t it real team up there?” 

“Now, Phoebe, do you stand from under,” he answered. 
“Go off, one side, and let Jackedo pick up ! ” 

Phoebe withdrew from under the tree and seated herself 
upon the grass, laughing merrily to see the nuts and burrs 
fall in showers on Jackedo’s head. 

“Be careful, Dan I ” she cried ; “ hold on tight ! ” 

The Brand was on his knees where the shower fell thickest, 
gathering the nuts into a pile. Suddenly Dan’s voice rang 
out loud and startling : 

Run, Phoebe ! Quick ! To the rocks I It’s Bevor ! Run ! 
Run ! 

Phoebe looked behind and saw the fierce brute, covered 
with blood, trotting swiftly towards her, his great teeth 
gleaming between open jaws. With a loud scream she 
sprang up and flew for the ledge. At the first alarm the 
Brand had instinctively bounded towards the same place ; 
but he turned at Phoebe’s ery. His face was very pale as he 
advanced, muttering to himself, “It’s a gay thing to do.” 
He shivered with fright ; but some powerful emotion urged 
him on, and he passed Phoebe, waving his whip and calling 
to his cur. 

“ At him Purp I Shake him!” he but half articulated. 
The little mongrel darted at the mastiff like a hornet. The 
next moment he was tossed in the air and fell, quivering, on 
the grass. Phoebe was half-way up the ledgQ, from whose 
summit she could step off upon a horizontal branch of the 
great tree, and find there a safe retreat. Assured of her es- 
cape, the Brand would have fled ; but the savage animal was 
upon him. As he lifted the Burner for a useless stroke, 
Bevor fastened on his arm and pulled him to the ground. 
Phoebe stood still, screaming, and Dan was hurrying down 
from limb to limb. 


THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 75 

“Quick, Dan ! Come quick ! ” Phoebe shrieked, and Dan, 
hanging from the lowest branch, dropped on Bevor’s back. 
The shock sent the dog flat to the ground and, after a short, 
fierce struggle, he let go his hold to fasten his teeth in the 
thigh of the new assailant, who sat astride him, clutching him 
with both hands by the throat. The blood ran in streams 
from Dan’s leg. He groaned with pain, but clenched his 
hands tighter. 

“ Get up !” he gasped. “Help me hold him !” 

The Brand was on his knees in an instant, and, coiling his 
long lash round and round the mastiff’s neck, he drew the 
folds fast with all his strength and secured them with a knot. 
Bevor’s eyes protruded from their sockets, while his deep 
chest rose and fell with loud, rapid panting. But he main- 
tained the same vise-like grip with his cruel fangs. 

“Jump on him ! ” cried Dan, in a low, faint voice. “ I’m 
growing weak ; help me ! Help me hold him ! ” 

The Brand darted behind his companion and fell upon the 
dog, seizing him by the legs and putting forth all his power 
to hold him down. Bevor shuddered terribly and struggled 
for breath. But the deadly coils around his neck and Dan’s 
desparate clutch upon his throat, with the combined weight, 
of the two boys, were too much for him. Every tendon was 
strained to its utmost, every muscle writhed and quivered, 
convulsions swept like quick, successive waves through his 
massive f^ame, then his bloody jaws unclosed and he lay 
still. The Brand stood up. But Dan fell forward with his 
face close to his dead enemy, one pallid hand resting, 
nerveless, uix)n his shaggy throat. With white lips and 
closed eyes he lay, as motionless and insensible as Bevor. 
His clothes were "soaked with blood and a large rent showed 
his thigh, lacerated by a shocking wound. The Brand 
stood looking mournfully upon his champion, while Phoebe, 
pale as Dan himself, came and knelt by his side, clasped his 
hand in hers, and gazed wistfully at his quiet face, taking no 
note of anything else, but repeating with woeful self-reproach, 
“He died for me ! ” 

“He said he would,” sadly replied the Brand. “See 
how he’s kep’ his word ! How awful still an* white ! He’ll 
never climb no more ; bloody Bewor’s killed him.” 

He threw himself on the grass and his tears fell fast while 
he sobbed : 


76 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Oh, I never thought this time would come. I done my 
best to help him. But ’twosn’t no use ; an’ now I wisli’t it 
wos me laying there.” 

“He can’t be dead,” moaned Phoebe. “He couldn’t die 
so quick.” 

Then, pulling at his hand, she cried, “ Come away, Dan ! 
Oh, come away! Don’t 3^ou know it’ s almost night? Oh, 
come away., Dan ! Dan ! ” 

“ ’Tisn’t no use,” murmured the Brand; “he won’t 
never wake no more. Phoebe, he said he’d die for 3"ou. 
Look how he’s kep’ his word ! He don’t feel tired nor hurt. 
He don’t hear nothing, nor see nothing, nor know nothing ; 
he’s gone with Bewor.” 

“Oh, wake up^ Dan !” cried Phoebe, in a choking voice. 
“Don’t you know its growing dark? Don’t you hear me tell 
you so? Oh, Dan ! Dan ! ” 

“ Stay by him, Phoebe!” said the Brand, “I’m going to 
call your aunt ; don’t you let nothing touch him ! ” 

With that, he ran toward the little red cottage in the bend 
of the road not far off. But Phoebe took Dan’s head on her 
lap, kissing him again and again, while her tears fell like 
rain on his face. She was bending over him when his great 
black eyes opened with a bewildered stare. At her quick cry 
of joy the faintest tinge of color came back to his lips. Too 
weak to move, and never taking his eyes off her face, he 
whispered : 

“ Stop the blood, Phoebe ; tie it up before it’s too late ! ” 

The pallor of her cheeks turned to crimson, burning ail 
over her face and neck. 

“Quick, Phoebe ! ” he begged. “I’m bleeding to death !” 

Taking his handkerchief and her own, she knotted them 
together, and wound them around the wound. But the blood 
still streamed. She ran behind the tree? and in a mo- 
ment came back with strips of muslin with which she ban- 
daged his thigh. That checked the flow. Then she held 
his head on her lap again and smoothed his hair with her 
hands. 

“Don’t cry, Phoebe!” he whispered. “It doesn’t hurt 
me a bit. Don’t cry so ! ” 

Phoebe’s tears ran all the faster. 

“Oh, Dan, I can’t help it,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad to 


THE BRAND DISENTIIRALLET). 


77 


hear you speak again. Don't shut your eyes any more ! 
Oh, how dreadful it was ! But Bevor is dead and my aunt 
May is coming to take care of you.” 

The Brand was approaching at his utmost speed with a 
blanket in his arms, and Miss Martin followed. 

“ Here you be, come back to life, by the great Gum ! ” he 
shouted, as he ran up. “Keep your lanterns open, Dan; 
keep ’em open ! Don’t you shut ’em or you’re a goner.” 

He threw the blanket on the ground crying, “Now I’ll 
tend to that bloody Bewor. He might, p’r’aps, take it into 
his head to come to, all of a sudden.” 

Seizing a large stone, he fell upon the dog and 
pounded him beyond all possibility of resuscitation. Miss 
Martin came up, and Dan was lifted on the blanket and car- 
ried to her house. They laid him on Phoebe’s bed and again 
he fainted. When consciousness returned his mother and 
the doctor were there. His leg was encased in a firm band- 
age and the doctor was giving him some drops from a spoon. 

“Doctor, will he live?” cried Mrs. Babbon, with brim- 
ming eyes and trembling voice. “Tell me the truth, doctor ! ” 

But the doctor, alwa 3 ’s careful not to commit himself on 
questions of that sort, or, indeed, on any question, cautiously 
replied : 

“We must hope for the best, madam; while there’s life 
there’s hope. The integuments are very much lacerated, as 
well as the adipose tissue ; the sartorius is pierced and the 
vma saphena severed. Very serious lesions. Very serious, 1 
do indeed assure you.” 

The sorrowing mother found the wise man’s technicalities 
sufficiently appalling. 

“ Doctor, tell me the whole truth ! ” she cried. “It’s bet- 
ter I should know it now. Don’t deceive me with false 
hopes ! ” 

The doctor had by no means been attempting to deceive 
Mrs. Babbon with false hopes. On the contrary his aim was 
to convince her that her son was at the brink of death, in 
order that, if he should die, she would feel that nothing could 
have saved him, and, if he should recover, she might under- 
stand that the doctor’s skill alone had rescued him from the 
grave. 

“Tell me the worst ! ” she begged. 


78 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


The doctor took his patient’s wrist with aggravating calm- 
ness, looking alternately at his watch and at the ceiling, with 
a gradually lengthening face. 

“Very critical; very critical indeed,” he muttered, in a 
low tone, as though fearful of being OA^erheard. A wail of 
despair escaped the half-distracted mother, while the wounded 
boy lay with deepest anxiety on his face, rolling his eyes im- 
ploringly from Phoebe to the doctor, and back again to 
Phoebe. Hitherto Dan had felt no alarm. But the tears 
and sobs of those who stood around now frightened him, and 
his heart sank with the fear of death. 

“The perforation of the sartorhis and adductor magm(s,’* 
resumed the wise man, Avith a professional relish for impress- 
ive language, “are not, it is true, always fatal. Nor are the 
solutions of continuity in the capillary inosculations of seri- 
ous importance. But this alarming hemorrhage from the 
vena sajAiena and the danger of tetanus are — ” 

Here he arrived at a pause Avhich proved even more effect- 
ive than his impressive language, and, looking compassion- 
ately upon Mrs. Babbon, walked away from the bed shaking 
his head. 

“Must 1 lose him?” she cried. “ Oh, doctor, can’t you 
save him ?” 

“’8h! ’sh!” said the doctor. “Absolute quiet, Mrs. 
Babbon, absolute quiet ! The vital spark is almost extin- 
guished. We must fan it gently, — very gently.,! do assure 
you. 1 am not without hope, but we must fan the flickering 
candle Avith the utmost gentleness, I do, indeed, assure you.” 

And, with his hand, the doctor fanned an inVisible candle, 
flickering before his eyes. 

“Hadn’t we better. put his feet in warm water?” sug- 
gested Miss Martin, with laudable but blind anxiety to con- 
tribute her mite towards the cure.” 

“The very thing I was about to direct,” replied the wise 
man ; “and a most excellent adjuvant is warm water, in these 
cases, I assui’e 3^11.” 

After profound deliberation, he added, “You ma}^ also 
mix a modicum of salt with i\\Q pedilnvhtm.” 

“How about vinegar? inquired the anxious mother. 
“ Wouldn’t it be well to bathe his head with vinegar, and put 
mustard on his hands and feet?” 


THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 


71 ) 


‘‘By all means, Mrs. Babbon,” the doctor emphatically 
declared. “Yes, yes ; we must uot omit a measure at once 
so simple and salutary. Exceedingly valuable therapeutic 
agents are vinegar and mustard, I do assure you.” 

“And onions, doctor? ” pursued Mrs. Babbou. “Wouldn’t 
they be good to put on his little stomach?” 

“Onions!” exclaimed the oracle, with a tone of sudden 
alarm and a gaze of severe rebuke. “Not a single onion, 
Mrs. Babbon ; not one solitary flake, as you value the safety 
of your first-born ! ” 

The warm water, vinegar, mustard, and salt were now 
brought, and, after seeing his patient well soaked, seasoned, 
and pickled, the doctor departed with a peculiar, binomial 
bow, — a bow consisting of two distinct inclinations of the 
head, connected by an ambiguous wave of his gloves which 
might be considered a positive or negative sign, according to 
the issue of the case. 

“ Aunt Mary, Jackey is bit, too,” said Phoebe, pointing 
to the Brand, who stood watching, with his old straw hat 
clasped under one arm. “ Won’t you please bind it up for 
him ? ” 

Miss Martin bandaged the Brand’s wound, and strange 
fancies forced themselves upon her as she turned her eyes 
from him to Phoebe and back again to him. She searched 
curiously in his face, asking : 

“ Little boy, who are you ? ” 

“Pm Jackedo, the Firebrand,” he replied. “Thank 
you, mom, for fixing my arm.” 

“ Good-bye, Dan,” he cried. “ Keep your lanterns open ; 
don’t you shut ’em ! ” 

Miss Martin seemed unable to remove her eyes from his face. 

“ Jackedo, come again to-morrow ! ” she said. “ 1 waul 
to talk to you. Will you come? ” 

“ Thank you, mom. I’d love to if I may,” the Brand re- 
plied as he started off. Night had already set in. He has- 
tened to the pasture and urged the cows towards home, stoj)- 
ping only at the scene of the struggle with Bevor to search 
for Purp’s body. He found the stiff form of his little cur, 
wet with dew, and stretched on the grass where he had seen 
him fall fromBevor’s jaws. Taking him up in his arms he 
made his way down the lane. 


80 


.'i YOUNG DTSCIPLE. 


“He’s a goner,” he sorrowfully murmured. “He wont 
never come hopping round me no more. He done the best 
he could, but it wosu’t no use. When I sung out, ‘ At him 
Ihu'p ! ’ he hooked in, the bravest he know^ed how. But ’twos 
a fly fighting a bond. Bewor just give one snap an’ cracked 
liiin like a ches’nut. But he couldn’t make him yowl. All he 
done was to grit his teeth, kind o’ desprit like, an’ shibber, 
an’ give up his ghost. Why didn’t he yowl? Cos he was 
gamey. I expect 'he felt his time had come when he wos 
sailing in. He knowed his business was to hook in an’ get 
cracked, an’ in he hooked. That’s wot I call a noble dog. 
They’s many four-legged beggar, but no dog like him. I 
never seen but one Purp, nor 1 never shall ; he wos the only 
one of his kind. Seems like he’d ought to awluz lived with 
me, cos we wos just alike; — made for a match. He wos 
often hungry an’ so be I. He was shaggy, an’ mean, an’ 
stunted out of his growth, an’ so I be. A bone would gen’ly 
fetch him, and a bone will sometimes fetch me. He went 
barefoot like I do ; an’ he wos great on the tremble. ’Twos 
a game he learned from me. He loved to light on a spot 
under the fence where it wos gay an’ warm, an’ lay there 
dreaming, with the sun a-pelting down onto him. Them wos 
the only times he wosn’t mis’rable. An’ that wos another 
game he learnt from me. Many’s the time we’ve sunned it 
an’ dreamed it together. Everybody laughed at him, an’ 
called him names, an’ stoned him, an’ kicked him, like 
they’ve done to me. But he never done nothing back again. 
All he wanted wos to settle down, kind o’ low, an’ sneak it 
out the way, like I’ve often had to do. Awluz wos he look- 
ing out for bricks, stones an’ such things ; an’ that’s just 
how old Big makes me feel, — forever on the watch. If any- 
l)ody tried to get near him he kep’ dodging round, all ready 
to strike out an’ flee. If anybody whistled for him to come 
up, away he’d scoot just the swiftest he knowed how. All 
you had to do wos to spat your knee an’ hold out your hand, 
like you’d got something good to eat, an’ off he’d go like a 
arrow. He wosn’t to be gummed. That’s me, too ; I ain’t 
to be gummed no more. When he begins to talk kind o’ 
pleasant-like, it’s a sure thing he’s baiting me up. I feel 
like I wos Purp an’ he wos spatting liis knees ; like it wos 
time for me to be flying like a arrow. For his size he wos 


THE BRAND DISENTHRALLED. 


81 


awful old, too, au’ that’s where he matched me again. An’ 
then he wos a stray, — on his own hook. one, too? 

Say! Ain’t 1 on my own hook? ’Twos on^ by chance I 
ever nabbed him. He wos wery weak an’ hungry or I never 
could uv done it. Hut I never thought the time would come 
I’d be holding of him this way. Yes, he loos like me, an’ he 
knoioed it., too ; an’ now I’m sorry I warmed him so often. 
If I could only see him hopping round me once more I’d 
never give him another burn. But I can’t ; he’s gone for 
good.” 

I.amenting thus, the Brand at length reached home. He 
expected a beating on account of his long absence, and it 
was with a sullen, downcast look that he entered the kitchen, 
after driving the cows into the barn-yard and hiding Purp’s 
body under the straw. But the death of his pet, and the ex- 
citement of the battle with Bevor, made him indifferent to the 
deacon’s wrath. To all questions he returned an evasive 
answer, or maintained a dogged silence, until his exasperated 
master seized him by the collar, crying : 

“Jackedo! for the last time J ask you w^here you’ve been 
to-day.” 

“Find out, you old Christian wolf! ” the Brand defiantly 
returned. “If you want to burn me, burn away! You’ve 
never done nothing but bang me round, an’ if 3"ou keep ham- 
mering forever ’twont make me no better. I won’t tell you 
nothing, — not if 3^ou cut my throat. Now hook in, 3-0111' 
bloodiest ! But ’twont make me no better, ’twont make me 
no better.” 

Deacon Biggot was thunderstruck. He looked from the 
boy to his wife and around the room as if he could not be- 
lieve his senses. 

“Is this the fruit of my labors?” he demanded, at length. 
“Is this the way 3^ set at naught all religious training, un- 
grateful little firebrand of sin? Do you speak thus to me, 
3-00 dreadful child of Satan?” 

“You go to the devil ! ” yelled the Brand, in frenzied rage. 
“You’re a growed-up child o’ Satan 3^our own self. Now 
sail in ! ” 

But the good man needed no invitation. Without further 
delay he began to discharge his duty upon the little sinner 
with a passionate zeal which, if it could not exorcise the evil 


82 


A YOU NO DISCIPLE. 


spirit within, at any rate wanted but little of demolishing its 
weakly tenMent ; and having obeyed the commands of his 
conscience, ^ thrust the boy through the door with the 
stern admonition : 

“ Now go to bed and think of your sins ! ” 

Without a tear or a word, the Brand made off for his pal- 
let, but Marthy started at the stony look on his face. Long 
after her husband had gone to sleep she thought of the scene. 
To herself she sighed, “I fear me we have not done God’s 
will by the boy. He sent him to us innocent and happy, and 
He will require him at our hands. Oh, that he had never 
come ! Oh, my husband, my heart misgives me this night.” 
She was a devout woman and now she sought comfort in her 
Bible. But, at last, her sympathies were fully aroused for 
the motherless boy, and on ever^r page she met the image of 
that hopeless, stony face. In her ears kept ringing that de- 
fiant, despairing cry ; “ ’Twont make me no better; ’twont 
make me no better.” 

“The Lord forgive and guide us ! ” was her prayer, as she 
laid herself down by her husband’s side ; and when she fell 
into an uneasy slumber it was only to shudder at terrifying 
dreams. Tor she thought she looked upon a fiery abyss 
whence rose the dreadful lamentations of the lost, and among 
the forms that writhed in torture she could see that stony 
face and hear it cry : 

“ ’Twont make. me no better ; ’twont make me no better.’’ 

She heard the hissing, crackling flames. She could even 
taste the smoke which hung, so dense and black, over the 
flaming pit. The air seemed laden with its stifling fumes. 
Half awake, she still saw a bright glare lighting the room, 
and dusky shadows dancing on the wall. Then the deep 
booming of bells burst on her ears and she knew that she 
dreamed no longer. Through the sleeping village rang the 
loud alarm, rousing all from their beds. From their windows 
frightened women gazed at the billows of lurid, sparkling 
smoke, rolling over Deacon Biggot’s premises. The fire- 
engine, dragged from its long idleness, went rattling and 
bounding along surrounded by a shouting throng, men and 
boys rushed half dressed from their homes, and all hur- 
ried to the scene of the conflagration. From every street 
and lane echoed the unwonted, appalling cry, “ Fire ! Fire ! 


R EMEDIA L A C EX TS. 


Fire!” while the church-bells pealed faster, and the crowd 
grew denser, around the burning barn. Thousands of thin, 
red, lambent tongues flickered through the cracks and lapped 
the sides of the building. A torrent of flame streamed out 
of the single window and, curling up over the eaves, joined 
the blazing tide which swept high above the roof, lighting the 
fields far around. To no purpose scores of sturdy arms re- 
lieved each other at the engine. Every moment the fire made 
headway. Above the roar of the flames and the tumult was 
heard the piteous lowing of tlie imprisoned cattle. And was 
that the scream of a human voice ? 

“The boy!” shrieked Marthy. “Save the boy!” and 
the report spread that Jackedo had been seen and heard in 
the fiery hay-loft. On every side brave men sought an en- 
trance.. But the barn now glowed like a furnace from roof 
to floor. No living creature could venture there. Further 
back the furious element forced the crowd, mocking their 
vain efforts. The thought of a human being in the flames lent 
new horror to the last expiring cries of the cattle, and the 
crash of the falling roof called forth a loud groan from the 
assembled multitude. The structure melted rapidly away. 
The roar of the flames subsided, denser clouds of smoke suc- 
ceeded the fading brightness and, soon, a heap of red-hot 
ashes and wasting embers alone remained. 


CHi^PTER VIII. 

REMEDIAL AGENTS. 

Blanched by loss of blood and prostrated by shock, Dan Li}" 
as white as marble and almost as still. His thick black hair 
lent a more deathly look to his pallid face, and the only visi- 
ble sign of life, at^times, was the light of his bright, restless 
eyes. 

“Mother!” he whispered, as Mrs. Babbon bent to kiss 
him, “will I die ?” 

For the moment' she could answer only with tears. 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


St 


“Tell me, mother,” he whispered again; “am I dying 
noiu ^ ” 

“ Oh, no, my darling son,” cried Mrs. Babbon, struggling to 
master her grief . “ God can save yon. I will pray to Him.” 

“Mother, let Phoebe ask Him!” cried Dan. “ I’d love to 
have he)’ pray for me.” 

Phoebe knelt and, with many sobs, offered up a childish 
petition. Then she sat on the bed, smoothing Dan’s hair, as 
she had done when he was lying by Bevor under the chestnut- 
tree. 

“Phoebe!” he murmured, “do you think I must die to- 
night? Tell me, Phoebe, did the doctor say I must?” 

“Oh, no, Dan,” cried Phoebe; “he never said so; and, 
besides, something tells me in my heart you will get well. I 
don’t know what it is, but it’s told me things before; and 
now it keeps saying you will be well again ; — and I know it 
always tells the truth.” 

Full of cheer were those simple words to Dan’s fluttering 
heart. An expression of intense anxiety had crept over his 
countenance ; but now it faded away. While Phoebe con- 
tinued smoothing his hair, his eyelids drooped and he sank into 
a quiet slumber. So gentle was his respiration that he hardly 
seemed to breathe at all, and, now that his eyes were closed, 
he looked the very image of death. Whereat, his mother’s 
tears burst forth afresh, and she wrung her hands in speech- 
less woe. But Phoebe strove to comfort her, saying timidly : 

“Don’t cry, ma’am ; don’t cry so, for something tells me, 
all the time, he will get well ! ” 

These words were sweet to the anxious mother, though 
spoken by a child, and somehow, within her, they kindled 
new hope. She fell into a reverie and beheld her son, a val- 
iant soldier of the cross, smiting the legions of Error in dis- 
tant lands. Another silent hour had passed when suddenly 
the pealing of bells came from the village. Dan w^as in- 
stantly wide awake. Something of his former fright returned 
to his face. 

“Mother!” he whispered, “is that the passing-bell? 
Are they burying anybody in the night?’’ 

“Oh, no. Don’t think of the passing-bell ! ” his mother 
answered. “All the bells are ringing, fast and loud. It’s 
a fire ! Oh, merciful Heaven ! I do hope that poor, imbecile 
soul has -not been lighting her oil-can for a lamp.’'* 


REMEDIAL AGEXTS. 


8r> 

Phoebe ran to the window, exclaiming, “Oh, how the 
flame rolls up ! It’s down towards Deacon Biggot’s ! See it 
blaze to the sky ! Oh, how beautiful ! ” 

Then, pushing open the blinds that Dan might enjoy the 
sight, she cried, “ Look, Dan ! Isn't it splendid? And the 
bells, — how sweet they sound, ringing all together, so far 
off ! Oh, now see how bright it is, — and how the sky grows 
red, — and the sparks, how they rise up and twinkle on the 
smoke ! ” 

“ Phoebe, can you tell where it is?” asked Mrs. Babbon. 

“No, ma’am,” answered Phoebe, “but it’s near Deacon 
Biggot’s. Oh, see how light it grows! People are running 
that way ; and here comes somebody this way, down by the 
Cedars. There ! he’s climbed over the fence, into the 
bushes.” 

Phoebe stayed by the window, delighted with the spectacle. 
But Dan was too weak to watch it, and before the bells were 
done ringing he was asleep. 

In the morning the doctor came. Dan was still sleeping, 
his hands folded upon his breast, and, in the darkened room, 
he looked so like a corpse that the doctor at the first glance 
actually thought him dead. 

“Yes, yes, I supposed so,” the Avise man sadly remarked, 
with a mournful air of assenting to some distressing, fore- 
gone conclusion. “A terrible affliction, Mrs. Babbon; ter- 
rible, terrible! But, when Providence baflfles human skill, 
we must bow to the stroke. What time did the poor little 
fellow drop off ? ” 

Mrs, Babbon’s fears had been somewhat allayed, but now, 
suspecting that the doctor had discovered symptoms of new 
danger, she wrung her hands and could scarcely reply that it 
Avas about one o’clock. 

“Easy, I suppose,” pursued the doctor, with an iuterroga- 
tiA'e elevation of the eyebrows, and the sorrowing mother 
ansAA^ered, “Oh, yes, easy and peaceful as a little lamb.” 

“Yes, yes; I thought so, I thought so,” returned the 
learned man, with an air of melancholy exultation. “Usually 
the way in these cases ,I assure you. Any muscae voUtantes^ 
Mrs. Babbon, or subsuUus tendinum? Or any sign of de- 
dirium ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” was the sorrowful reply; “I think he was a 


8G 


A VO UNO D IS CTTL K. 


little out of his mind once. He woke up and began talking 
about the passing-bell, and about burying people in the 
night. But he’s been asleep ever since, and I don’t know 
how it is now. Hadn’t we better wake him up, doctor?” 

The doctor instantly perceived his mistake, and the fact 
that Mrs. Babbon was unaware of it. 

“By all means, by all means,” he cried, with sudden alac- 
rity. “Certainly I must wake him, Mrs. Babbon. What 
time did you say he dropped olf to sleep? ” 

While Mrs. Babbon repeated that it was about one o’clock, 
tlie doctor drew a chair to the bed and roused his patient. 

“ How is our little man this morning?” said he, sportively 
chucking him under the chin. “ Bright as a button ? Bright 
as a button?” 

The expression of anxiety instantly returned to Dan’s 
face. But the doctor was already in good spirits. “Now, 
my little man,” said he, “can’t you put out your tongue and 
let the doctor see it?” Dan pushed out his tongue, and, 
taking a bird’s-eye view, the doctor cried : 

“ Admirable, admirable! There we see the effect of those 
drops. I thought they wouldn’t disappoint us.” 

Mrs. Babbon carefully searched for the effect of the drops, 
and fancied that she saw it, while she said : 

“Doctor, his skin kept moist all night. Isn’t that a good 
sign ? 

“Capital, Mrs. Babbon, capital ! and it’s an exceedingly 
fortunate circumstance that the cutaneous transpiration was 
not suppressed. That you may fairly attribute to the vinegar 
and mustard. Very valuable remedial agents are vinegar 
and mustard, I do assure you. It is indeed wonderful what 
powers they exhibit, in certain cases where the vis medicatrix 
naturae, you know, is inadequate to the cure.” 

But little, indeed, did Mrs. Babbon know about the vis 
medicatrix naturae, but she was delightfully conscious that 
those very valuable agents had been applied at her own sug- 
gestion. There are not many subjects upon which peopte 
pride themselves more than upon their supposed knowledge 
of medicine, and Mrs. Babbon began to cherish hopes of 
eliciting a word of commendation from the learned man. 

‘‘Now we’ll try the pulse,” said the latter, gazing at the 
ceiling with a look of profound wisdom, while he held his 


REMEDIAL AGENTS. 


87 


watch in one hand and his patient’s wrist in the other. “En- 
coui-aging again ! Feeble, but regular. Very promising, on 
the whole, very promising indeed. That’s the sort of pulse 
that used to trouble Abercrombie so much. A great man in 
his day, but unable to comprehend that peculiar pulse. These 
things are clearer now. No syncope, I hope, nor tinnitus 
auriuin.’^ 

Mrs. Babbon felt as if she were being dragged out upon an 
unknown sea of erudition. 

“No, sir,” she blindly replied ; “not any, I believe. But 
don’t you think he’s better, doctor?” (This question by way 
of a desperate struggle to reach shore again.) 

“Oh, certainly better; most decidedly better^’' said the 
medicine-man. “A strong constitution, you see, and a very 
remarkable degree of vitality. This case shows what it is to 
have good blood in the veins. Something here for the doc- 
tor to work upon. Why, if he’d been the child of any one 
of fifty couples I could name, he’d been dead before he 
reached the house.” 

Not unskilful was the medicine-man in the art of saying 
pleasant things, and Mrs. Babbon was more than ever con- 
vinced of his wisdom. 

“I know it,” she exclaimed ; “ and I thank my Heavenly 
Father that our family has never brought into the world a 
single sore-eyed, scrofulous little cripple, nor one rickety 
wretch.” 

“ And that tough vitality counts for a great deal,” resumed 
the doctor, who had no intention of letting it count for too 
much, in the present case, “ but we must fan the vital spark 
wnth the utmost gentleness, if wm would have him get along 
tuto^ cito etjucunde^ — with the very utmost gentleness, Mrs. 
Babbon, I do assure you.” 

On the subject of good blood Mrs. Babbon believed her- 
self upon firm, familiar gi-ound, but by the Latin she was 
instantly carried out beyond her depth. Not the most re- 
mote idea had she, what kind of getting along that was. But, 
inferring that it was something very desirable, she expressed 
an eager hope that lier son might get along in that way. 

“And I think,’’ continued the ^doctor, “ with good care, 

• and such a skilful nurse, we shall' pull him through. The 
lesion is exceedingly serious, but the prognosis is certainly 
favorable.” 


88 


A YOUXG DISCI PI. E. 


What the prognosis was, the anxious mother could not in 
the least imagine, but she rejoiced to hear that it was favor- 
able. 

“ Doctor,” she gratefully exclaimed, “lean never repay 
you. You have saved his life. Don’t deny it, doctor ! But 
for your skill I must have lost my son.” 

The doctor had not the least intention of denying. 

“Under Providence, Mrs. Babbon, under Providence.” 
he modestly returned, “ I believe we have been instrumen- 
tal.” 

Whether the vinegar and mustard were included in the 
pronoun he did not say ; but his tone and manner plainly de- 
clared that Providence would have made very poor work of it 
without the doctor. Dan was thinking of what he had heard, 
the previous evening, about the danger of tetanus. 

“ Doctor,” said he, “ do you think I will catch the — the 
— what you spoke of yesterday ? ’ ’ 

“ Let me see,” said the doctor, exploring his memory, 
^Hetamis., tetanus?’’ 

“That sounds like it,” Dan gloomily replied. 

“Let me see!” repeated the doctor. Emprosthotonos, 
opisthotonos .,pleurosthonos. Merely varieties or, rather, phases. 
Now don’t be alarmed I don’t be alarmed! I’m on the 
watch, and if they should show themselves I’ll nip them in 
the bud. AYatson to be sure, wrote a great many terrifying 
things about tetanus^ but the difficulty with AYatson was, he 
didn’t know his subject. No, no, don’t be alarmed, my little 
man ! AYatson is ail exploded.” 

Dan had never heard of Dr. AYatson, but the long words 
and wise looks of his own physician convinced him that*, in 
comparison with him, Dr. AYatson was a dunce. 

“Oh, by the way,” resumed the doctor, “a very sad af- 
fair that was last night, — that fire. Horrible death ; horrible, 
horrible! Burnt to tinder, down to very last bone.” 

“I haven’t heard a word about it,” exclaimed Mrs. Bab- 
bon. “ Do tell, doctor ! Where was the fire? Did von sa}’ 
somebody was burned?” 

“ It was Deacon Biggot’s barn,” the doctor replied. “It 
appea?’s that his boy, Jackedo, slept in the haymow, and 
there isn’t a vestige of him left. The flames spread so fast 
he must have perished in a very few minutes ; probably be- 


REMEDIAL AGENTS. 


89 


fore the alarm was given, I think, although they say he was 
heard screaming.’^ 

Phoebe ran crying from the room. 

“A shocking affair,” resumed the doctor. “Shocking, 
shockingj But perhaps the poor little fellow is better off, 
after all. Between you and me, I haven’t mucli sympathy 
for Deacon Biggot. As far as I can hear, the way he treated 
that boy was outrageous. But I say it strictly inter nos, 
Mrs. Babbon, strictly inter nos. ” 

Implicit faith had Mrs. Babbon in good Deacon Biggot. 
To her he was as the echo of a voice crying in the wilderness, 
or the sacred shadow of John the Baptist. 

“Well, I don’t know, doctor,” she gently expostulated, 
“I can hardly believe that of Deacon Biggot. I hardly think 
he treated that boy badly. Probably the child’s veins were 
running over with contaminated blood, and he was prone to 
sin, as the sparks are to fly upward. I suppose he often 
needed correction. But Deacon Bigg'ot is a truly good man, 
if there ever was one, and I can’t believe he ever lost sight 
of that boy’s eternal interests.” 

Quite suddenly the doctor discovered that he was at fault. 

“It does seem so, Mrs. Babbon,” he replied, “it does 
seem so. Deacon Biggot is certainly a most exemplary man, 
and I was not a little astonished to hear such reports. You 
know the old saying, where there’s so much smoke there 
must be some fire ; but nobody believes such things of Dea- 
con Biggot, and the boy certainly did have a bad name. It 
is to be hoped that he was not smothered in his sleep, and 
cut off without warning, or time for repentance.” 

Thereupon the doctor drew on his gloves, and was about 
to depart, when Mrs. Babbon arrested him with the question : 

“Doctor, what shall I give him to eat; would gruel be 
suitable?” 

“Exactly the article, Mrs. Babbon. The very thing I 
was going to prescribe ; and a most excellent dietetic prepa- 
ration in "cases of this nature, I do assure you.” 

“Could I make some barley-water for him? ” pursued the 
(‘areful mother. 

“I don’t know; let me see!” said the doctor, weighing 
the expediency of venturing upon a jesting smile. He was 
upon the point of expressing a doubt of Mrs. Babbon’s ability 


90 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


to accomplish that feat. But, in those coal-black eyes he 
read an utter intolerance of any such conceit as he had in 
mind, and gravely replied : 

You may try it, Mrs. Babbon, you may try it, with cir- 
cumspection.” 

“And arrow-root?” 

“Capital! Capital!” 

“How about a spoonful of chicken broth, now and then?” 

“ Occasionally, madam, occasionally ; but very cautiously., 
and with barely a modicum of pepper.” 

“ I suppose jmu wouldn’t allow him any meat, would 
you?” 

“By no means, Mrs. Babbon, by no manner of means. 
Not a fibre at present ; not a single fibre.” 

“Doctor, what would you say to a mouthful of beef tea? ” 

The medicine-man reflected, as though it were uncertain 
what he would say to a mouthful of beef tea, on the spur of 
the moment. But from his countenance one could infer that 
it would be something emphatic, if not expletive. 

“We must be prudent, and not over-stimulate,” he de- 
cided, at length. “It is a question more important than one 
would suppose, — one that requires deliberation, I do assure 
you.” 

“Then there’s coffee,” pursued the other. He’s very fond 
of it. That wouldn’t hurt him, would it, doctor? ” 

“Oh, quite the reverse. But let it be Mocha, and very 
weak ! Hardly a berry to the cupful, for it’s rather stimu- 
lating, Mrs. Babbon.” 

“I had thought of an egg,” Mrs. Babbon doubtfully ob- 
served, “ but I concluded to wait and ask you.” 

“ An egg, Mrs. Babbon ! Indeed you did right to hesitate 
before giving your child an egg. And a most fortunate cir- 
cumstance it is that you did not give him one, I do assure 
you. Not an egg, madam, not a single one, if you expect 
me to be responsible for your son’s safety !” 

With a painful sense of having almost blasted her medical 
reputation, and trembling to think how near she had been to 
a dangerous experiment, the worthy lady promised herself 
that she would adhere rigidly to the doctor’s instructions, and 
abandoned all thought of further suggestions. And, with 
that stern reproof, the scientific proficient in pills and potions 
went out. But he opened the door again to sa}^ : 


REMEDIAL AGENTS. 


91 


“Strictly inter nos, Mrs. Babbon, as regards Deacon Big- 
got ! Strictly mter nos; sub rosa et lingua! ” 

Thereupon he departed, with one of his characteristic bows, 
leaving his listeners almost stunned by the amount of learn- 
ing concentrated in his last words. A polynomial bow it 
was, this time, and respect for Mrs. Babbon’s social position 
expanded it to a very high power. 

“Mother!” murmured Dan, “where is father? Why 
don’t he come to see me? ” 

“Gracious only knows,” the mother replied. “He’s never 
where he ought to be ; — never with his suffering, neglected 
family.” 

The fretful lady had made a fair start, and “ Gracious ” 
alone knows how long she would have kept on, had not Miss 
Martin appeared, at that moment, with Dan’s breakfast. 
That day and the succeeding night they watched him, by 
turns, and the third day he was able to be taken liome. 
During this period Mr. Babbon had been away. It was 
evening when he returned, and found his wife alone at the 
supper-table. Entering with a brisk step and cheerful face, 
he gave her a hearty kiss, for the first glance showed him 
that she was wound exceedingly tight, and by that token of 
aifection he hoped to prevent her from running down. But 
he was doomed to disappointment. The partner of his joys 
and sorrows submitted to the salutation as to a surgical 
operation, and immediately wore a martyred look. Very 
pungent was her voice, too, as she exclaimed : 

“Mr. Babbon, I should be obliged to you if 3^011 would 
moderate your transports till you get shaved. But 1 suppose 
I ought to feel very much pleased, or to pretend I do. It 
isn’t alwa\"S easy though, to do one’s duty.” 

The cheerful look on Mr. Babbon’s face instantly vanished. 
But, with a desperate effort to bury the hatchet, he said, 
“My dear, I hope you have been well ; haven’t you?” 

“Thank you, I have been very well indeed, and am now,” 
Mrs. Babbon replied, with an emphasis which declared that 
she knew somebody wdio had not been well, and who was still 
very far from convalescence. Casting about for a subject 
whereon he could make a diversion, and seeing Dan’s place 
vacant, Mr. Babbon impatiently demanded : 

“Where’s that little scapegoat?” 


92 


A YOUNG DTSCrPLE. 


•‘Scapegoat, Mr. Babbon ! ” echoed the agitated lady. 
“ Scapegoat ! yes, that is a happy slip of the tongue. Scape- 
grace you meant, but you’ve stumbled on the right word. 
He is, and always was, a poor little scapegoat to bear his 
father’s sins. Well may you ask where that poor child is 
now. Where do you suppose?” 

Mr. Babbon mildly suggested that that was the precise 
point he wished to ascertain. But, heedless of the mild 
suggestion, and pressing her inquiry with relentless perti- 
nacity, Mrs. Babbon continued : 

“ AV'here do you think that little mangled martyr is, at this 
l)lessed moment, while you sit calmly at supper? Where 
would he have heen^ but for his distracted mother.” 

Mr. Babbon speculated in provoking silence, apparently 
endeavoring to determine where the little mangled martyr 
was, and where he would have been except for his distracted 
mother. But the question battled him. He made no reply. 

“Answer me if you please,” urged Mrs. Babbon. “Offer 
a single conjecture ! ” ■ 

“Roaming the fields, like a Bedouin of the desert ! ” cried 
Mr. Babbon, with conciliatory enthusiasm. 

“No, indeed,” returned his wife. “Rather a prey to 
beasts of the earth and fowls of the air.” 

This startling assertion Mrs. Babbon delivered in a thril- 
ling voice, and with a comprehensive sweep of her arm over 
imaginary tribes of quadrupeds and flocks of bipeds. 

“Yes, Mr. Babbon,” she continued, “that is where your 
son would have been, but for a mother’s care. Lacerated b}" 
a ravenous brute, fluttered over by the carrion crow, battened 
on by the vulture ; yes, the vulture of the — ” 

“Of the lonely dell!” suggested Mr. Babbon, apparently 
carried away with poetic rapture, but not in the least dis- 
turbed by the hypothetical fate of his son. 

“ I am no naturalist,” the amiable lady returned, in a tone 
of singular sweetness contrasted with her previous vehe- 
mence, “but, if you will take the trouble to inform yourself 
on the habits of the vulture, I think you will find that he does 
not frequent lonely dells, nor any other dells. He prefers 
mountain peaks and high altitudes generally, if I am not 
mistaken.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if you’re right,” Mr. Babbon con 


REMEDIAL AGENTS. 


93 


ceded, and believed himself adroit. “ But, seems to me,” he 
added, “I’ve somewhere read that the vulture has never 
been found in the W estern Hemisphere. Suppose we make 
it the eagle, my dear ! ” 

“ That isn’tthe point,” criedhis excited dear. “ The point 
is, your son is where he no longer feels a father’s neglect ; 
where his heart-broken mother has just left him, moaning in 
his agony. That is where your little scapegoat is now.” 

Mr. Babbon displayed no emotion at the harrowing intelli- 
gence ; but he wearily and incredulously remarked, “ That’s 
better than to be fluttered over and battened on, at all 
eA^ents.” 

. “I could have borne it,” resumed his wife. “I could 
have stood and wiped the clammy sweat from his little brow, 
and bowed to the will of Heaven. What I could not do, was 
to listen while that little, gasping voice was begging for his 
father to come and see him once more. That was too much 
for a mother’s heart. But where were you when your de- 
serted wife was bending over the couch of your wounded 
son? And yet I need not ask. Are you not racing from 
pole to pole, — chasing after riches, gathering in your dollars, 
piling up your wealth, bowing and bowing at the altar of 
Mammon ? It is not for your wife to know what places you 
visit. Her lot is to stay at home, to grieve over her sorrows 
and mourn over the mangled remains of her offspring, — 
immured in this great house year after year, toiling and slav- 
ing, suffering and mourning. Yes, she must do all that, and 
does do it, but she knows there is a pitying Eye that beholds 
the trials of His handmaid. But, go on, Mr. Babbon ; go on 
in your chosen path! Win all you can; heap up richesj 
pile thousand on thousand ; store away your gold ; don’t 
waste a single moment in acting the part of a Christian 
parent ; let your godless son grow up a vagabond on the 
face of the earth, or let him be torn to strings by raging 
brutes ! But afterwards, remember, oh remember^ comes the 
settlement of your account ! ” 

Rebellion was stirring in Mr. Babbon’s breast. “My 
dear,” he impatiently returned, “I’m sure I do all I can to 
promote your comfort. You know it was important business 
called me to New York. Gridly — ” 

“Oh, gracious heavens ! ” interposed his wife with a nau- 


94 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


seated air, as though sickening at the name, “ don’t Gridly 
me any more, if you please ! Nothing but Gridly, Gridly, 
Gridly, week after week and year after year, till I’m worn to 
a shadow with your everlasting Gridly. I abhor the creature 
and hate the very name.” 

Mr. Babbon’s patience was exhausted. “Wife!” he 
cried, with unwonted harshness, “it’s anything but pleasant 
to meet that fretting tongue the moment I come in. I can’t 
stand this eternal woiTying and chafing, and I won’t have it. 
If you will persist in making our home a hell on earth, I must 
go where I can find peace. I can live on crusts and in a 
hovel, but I must have rest from this infernal rasping. 

It was an earnest blow for freedom, and boldly was it 
struck. But it failed. Nor was it the worthy lady’s fault 
that she did not immediately retire with silent dignity. Such 
was her design when she rose. But her nerves were over- 
taxed. A globe seemed rolling up from her stomach to her 
throat, where it lodged fast. Her eyes became painfully 
prominent, and her countenance assumed a leaden hue. Like 
a hammer, every stroke of the heart only drove the hysterical 
nail deeper into her brain. To all appearance she was chok- 
ing. Her liusband, thoroughly ashamed of his 'rudeness, 
hastened to her assistance, and she reeled over into his arms 
with a prolonged shudder. The conqueror of Carman, Spelter 
& Co. was vanquished. He carried his wife to a lounge in 
the sitting-room, lavishing endearments upon her, and heap- 
ing reproaches on himself. 

“There, there, my dear wife,” he soothingly exclaimed; 
“you know I didn’t mean one word of it. Don’t you feel a 
little better now ? ’ ’ 

But his wife seemed not to hear. Her leaden hue gave 
way to a ghastly pallor. She was passing into a state of 
religious ecstasy. 

“Plant a weeping willow there,” she murmured, “but let 
not the marble tablet proclaim that she died of a broken 
heart ! ” 

“Don’t talk so/” begged her husband. “It was thought- 
less cruelty in me. I’ll never say it again.” 

“And sometimes,” she sighed, “you will come, won’t 
you, John, where the weeping wfillow waves? ” 

“I was a brute ! ” remorsefully cried Mr. Babbon. 


MR. FLINT EYE. 


95 


To which his wife responded, “‘I would not live alway ; 
I ask noi to stay.’ Angels, strike, strike your golden l3U*es !’* 

The penitent waited not to hear whether any celestials 
struck, struck, their golden instruments, but made a frantic 
plunge for the camphor-bottle. And diligent use thereof 
was linally rewarded with manifestatio-ns of recovery. Mrs. 
llabbon at length sat up, with a bewildered look, as if her 
spirit had just returned to unwelcome scenes of earth from 
some distant sphere. 

“I believe 1 am over that attack for the present,” she 
sighed; but it was a dangerous experiment. I don’t think 
you meant it, but 3^ don’t know the sensitiveness of my 
nervous system. One more shock like that would do it 
forever. ’ ’ 

With air sorts of impossible accidents floating in his dis- 
ordered imagination, the conscience-stricken husband con- 
gratulated himself upon his narrow escape. 

“And now, Mr. Babbon,” resumed his convalescent wife, 
as she arose and hung heavily upon his arm, “if you will 
assist me up stairs, we will visit the couch of your mangled 
son.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

MR. FLINTEYE. 

The morning was stormy and dismal, and the great city slow 
to begin the din and strife of the day. Behind a pile of 
casks, on one of the East-river piers lay the hapless Brand, 
nearly insensible to pain, so benumbed was he by the raw, 
north-east wind, and the cold, driving rain. Disenthralled 
he was, indeed, from Deacon Biggot’s bonds, and wanting 
but little of being set free forever from all hardship. No 
long time could the merciless elements now require to com- 
plete on him the work begun by his zealous master. Nor 
any complaint had he to make, apparently. Very feeble his 
voice sounded, but without vain protest or supplication, 


96 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


faintly uttering to the ear of inexorable Fate, as it were, the 
not incompliant surmise : 

“I expect I’m going off the hooks.” 

An observation not likel}^ to be heard, at such time and 
place, unless some nightly prowler were skulking near. 

When he had crept away to the deacon’s barn, after receiv- 
ing the last finishing touches of that good man’s discipline, 
he resolved to give his departed pet the honors of a coffin 
and a grave. Lighting the lantern which always hung inside, 
near the door, and selecting from a bundle of shingles a 
number suflScient for his purpose, he climbed to his corner of 
the ha3^mow and fell to work with his knife, marking the 
length of Purp’s body on the boards, and cutting them to 
form an oblong box. 

“He’s a r/oner,” he sorrowfully murmured; “an’ may 
be that’s just where he’s lucky. P’r’aps it would be a gay 
thing for me, too, if I wos in a box, a-rumbling down to tlie 
bone-yard. When a cove is once let down in the ground he’s 
got a sure thing. If he’s hungry he don’t know it, if it’s cold 
he don’t tremble, if his s’roud is ragged he don’t care. Rain 
comes and soaks him, Mr. Worm hooks into him, an’ the wind 
whistles over him. But he just lets ’em soak, an’ hook, an’ 
whistle away. Lots of people is laying in bone-^^ards. But 
they never tackle each other. If a little feller is let down 
near ’em they never call him a child o’ Satan, nor bang him 
round, nor rub his mouth with ashes, an’ tell him its all for to 
make him a Christian. They just lay still and take it easy. 
Every cove goes on his own hook, there. If I’d only been 
let alone, to go on my own hook, p’r’aps I’d had some luck. 
But it ain’t no use now. No use now.” 

Overcome with drowsiness, at length, he fell asleep over 
his task. Several hours had passed when he was awakened 
by stiffing smoke, and saw the loft on fire. Despite his 
utmost efforts, the flames spread round him, cutting off all 
escape by the ladder. Not a moment too soon he pushed a 
heap of hay off upon the floor, and leaped down. Darting 
through the door, he sped away across the fields, bounding 
over ditches and fences, often stumbling and falling, but 
never resting till he reached a lane that led to the Cedars. 
There he looked back, only long enough to see a bright light 
shining through the chinks of the barn, then walked rapidly 


MR. FLINT EYE. 


97 


on, panting and holding his hands to his sides. In a few 
moments the loud pealing of the church-bells told him that 
the alarm w^as given, and a frightened glance backward 
showed him the flames bursting through the roof. He heard 
men’s voices shouting, and fled faster. At length he reached 
the Cedars. 

“There then!” he muttered, in mingled triumph and 
despair. “ He’s kep’ on calling me a firebrand an’ now' 1 
be one. But he made me a firebrand ; he done it. Oh, 1 
wish’t I wos dead.” 

Phoebe’s window was in plain sight and he saw^ her stand- 
ing there, looking at the fire. 

“ She wos kind to me,” he sobbed. “ Once she kissed 
me an’ told me she’d say prayers for me. But she needn’t 
sa}^ no more. Wot’sthe use, for a child o’ Satan? I wish’t 
it wos me as wos chawed to death by Beww, an’ ’twos me 
a-laying up there an’ dying. Then, p’r’aps it might be some 
use, — p’r’aps I’d go to heaven, then. Seems like they’d 
ought to be some .heaven, for little wore-out coves, where he 
couldn’t ever come. If he w'os standing on the Shinin’ Shore 
an’ I wos swimming across, I know he’d stone me, an’ keep 
me dodging an’ diving till I’d have to give up an’ go under. 
’Tisn’t no use for me to try. Purp is gone an’ I must go. 
Good-bye, Phoebe ! I must toddle aw^ay w'hile it’s dark ! ” 

With a last look at the blazing barn, he stole along in the 
shade of the Cedars, climbed over the fence, and made his 
way through the dark woods to an unfrequented road beyond. 
He then pushed rapidly on towards the turnpike. Four days 
and nights he travelled, sleeping under fences and in barns, 
now and then obtaining a bit of food, at some secluded farm- 
house, and avoiding observation as much as possible. The 
nights were frosty and his thin w'ork-day suit afforded little 
protection from the cold. But that mode of suffering was 
familiar, and to it he was somewhat inured. His head was 
covered, and the upper part of his face shaded, by a cast-off 
hat culled from among other refuse by the roadside. On the 
evening of the fourth day he reached New York. Gazing 
with wonder at the great buildings on every side, and the 
long rows of lamps that reached as far as he could see, he 
trudged through the magnificence of Fifth Avenue and the 
splendor of Broadway. Upon a bench in a public square he lay 


98 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


down to rest, for rest he sorely needed as well as food. 
Wrapping his old felt hat around his feet, and burying his 
hands in his pockets, he stretched himself on the seat and 
for a few moments forgot his sufferings iu sleep. But a vio- 
lent shake suddenly restored him to misery. 

“ What you ben growled a rough voice, and the 

Brand, starting up, saw a large man standing before him. 

“What you ben on; hey?” the rough voice demanded, 
more harshly than before. 

The Brand shivered with fright even more than with the 
cold. 

“You he a precious one ain’t }ou, to be laying round on 
the beat ! Come ! what you ben doing of ? ” 

“Nothing,” replied the trembling Brand, glancing stealth- 
ily from side to side, weighing the chances of escape. 

“ Don’t you try for to do it ; not by no means don’t you ! ” 
said the policeman. “If you was four block off, and I had 
a wooden leg, and didn’t spot you till you’d got started, why 
then you mought skip, in case I was took with cramps and 
struck stone-blind to boot. But here, in this here spot, and 
a-setting on this here bench, I shouldn’t ad wise you for to try 
it, I don’t think.” 

The luckless Brand instantly recognized the impossibility 
of that combination of circumstances. 

“ I wosn’t going to do it,” he whined, and added the in- 
genious explanation , “ I wos looking round to see wot keeps 
going ‘zt! zt!’ all the time. There! don’t you hear it? 
‘Zt! zt! ’ ” 

“ You are on the till-ta}') ! ” said the officer. “ That’s your 
racket. Come, where’ve you ben grafting to-day? And what 
you snoozing here for? ” 

To which the Brand in a tone of weak expostulation an- 
sw'ered, “ I haven’t done nothing.” 

“ I knowed it,” resumed the harsh voice. “ Them precious 
little beats never does do nothing. They goes round on the 
beg, or pretending they’re on the peddle, and now and then 
they drops into a basement. If nobody’s there to spot ’em, 
spoons and forks and such like trifles hops into their pockets. 
But they don’t know it. Them blessed innocents never taps 
no tills. They never lifts no herring, nor mackerel neither. 
Herring and mackerel falls in love with them little lambs 


MR. FLINT EYE. 


99 


and, when they comes smelling round groceries, them fish 
swims out of tubs and boxes and dives into pockets. But 
the children don’t know nothing about it ; not till they gets 
miles away they don’t ; and then they’re struck all of a heap : 
they can’t make out how them fish come there. See what a 
thing it is to be an honest boy ! ’ ’ 

“Mister,” returned the Brand, “I a honest boy an’ 
I awluz wos. Look where it’s fetched me to ! ” 

“I ought to run you in,” said the officer. “ I don’t know 
but one thing to do with a kid of your stripe ; that’s to send 
him to the sawdust. It’s a raging sin not to do it ; but never 
mind ! some day I’ll pipe j^ou with your pals, and then I’ll 
scoop you all, in a lump. Now this ain’t no spot for a young 
wagrant. Come, shove on ! ” 

The weary Brand was only too glad of the unexpected per- 
mission to depart, and limped off, down Fourth Avenue, as 
fast as his bruised and swollen feet could carry him. A 
throng of people were pressing into the Cooper Institute. 
The space around was illuminated, and a flood of vivid rays 
fell upon one side of the building. And the homeless Brand, 
gazing wistfully up at the warm light that streamed through 
the windows, stopped- a moment to spell the words on the 
cornice. 

“To Science and Art ! ” he read aloud and then limped on, 
plaintively murmuring, “How lucky they be! Science an’ 
Art can’t be no colder, nor hungrier, nor no nigher giviug-in 
than I be ; but they’s a warm place to them.” 

Halting often to feast his eyes on piles of bread and cake 
displayed in shop-windows, breathing on his stiffened fingers 
to warm them, starting at strange sights and sounds on every 
side, neither knowing nor caring whither he went, he wan- 
dered along, down the bright, crowded Bowery. Eastward 
he strayed, "through filth, and stench, and squalor, and crime; 
through nests of poverty, of vice, and of misery ; through 
scenes of utter wretchedness and haunts of despair, — himself 
homeless, wretched, despairing, — longing for his lost pet, 
shivering with cold and groaning with pain, wading through 
the mud of Front Street, staggering at last and stumbling 
along the docks, until he fell in the mire and crawled behind 
a pile of hogsheads to shelter himself, as best he could, from 
the cold rain that had begun to drench him. 


100 


A YOUNQ DISCIPLE. 


“Oh I tried my best,” he groaned. “ I never stole, nor 
I never told no lies, nor I never swore ; but now I wish’t I 
had. P’r’aps ’twould changed my luck. Lots o’ werses I 
learned in the Bible, but ’twosn’t no use. I’d swop ’em all 
for acorns now. I might pray all night, but nobody would 
come to swop with me. 1 said my prayers, right straight 
along, an’ a angel said ’em for me, but that wosn’t no use 
neither. I don’t want to get up no moi’e. I only want to go 
to sleep an’ not wake up.” 

On the river the ferry-boats, with gayly-lighted cabins, 
moved swiftly to and fro, while here and there a restless tug 
sped up or down the stream. Hundreds of huge black ships, 
with an endless maze of ropes and spars, and bowsprits 
reaching far over the streets, rocked lazily on the short, 
spiteful waves that dashed incessantly along the docks. The 
wind blew in angry gusts, driving the rain in sheets from the 
roofs. The gutters foamed with torrents. Belated trucks 
floundered noisily through lagoons of mud, while the roar of 
stages and cars, and the drivers’ shouts? filled the welkin. 
Alone indifferent to the storm were the wooden aborigines, 
with their gaudy wooden petticoats and impossible feathers, 
who offered bunches of wooden cigars with all the tradi- 
tionary stoicism of their race, and the hump-backed, wooden 
Punchinellos who grinned at the soaking crowds hurrying by. 
But even these hardy ones were soon wrestled into their 
doors. Beggars of every description, many of whom would 
have been more hump-backed than the Punchinellos, if they 
could, sturdy sluggards with profitable carbuncles on their 
shins, creatures with wooden shins, and still more fortunate 
ones with no shin at all, hied away from their usual haunts. 
The fossilized vendors of nuts and fruit shouldered their 
goods and abandoned their lucrative stalls. Even the va- 
grant, vigilant, guilty curs that stopped to sniff at the curb- 
stone, waited but a moment, then fied down suspicious alleys. 
All through that cheerless night the little victim of Deacon 
Biggot’s mistaken zeal lay behind the hogsheads, on the 
muddy pier. The pitiless rain wrought steadily upon him 
but he knew it not. Neither whistle of ferry-boats, nor roar of 
wheels, nor drunken babblings and bacchanalian songs, echo- 
ing loudly from gin-shops across the way, reached his ears. 
Sleep had brought respite from suffering ; — in his dreams he 


MR. FLINT EYE. 


101 


again followed Dan Babbon through the woods, and a second 
time took part in the bloody battle with Bevor. The night 
was fading into livid morning when he awoke to semi-con- 
sciousness. Very torpid he was, and not dissatisfied sounded 
his voice, but rather conjectural, remarking to Fate, per- 
haps, or to Space, — 

“ I expect Tm going off the hooks.” 

Not unfreqiiently, however, it is the improbable that hap- 
pens. A nightly prowler was near, and on his ears fell that 
careless observation. And, soon thereafter, the nocturnal 
hands held to the numb lips a bottle, from which flowed a lit- 
tle warm, reanimating rill ; the effect whereof was marked, 
eliciting the somewhat spirited exclamation, — 

“ I ain’t caved in yet ! I bet my luck has changed ! ” 

In a little while the Brand stretched himself and sat up. 

Then he arose and surveyed his environment, as with some 
vague idea of renewing the battle with Fate. His heart was 
beating stionger now, diffusing warmth through his frame, 
banishing the leaden color from his lips, and calling new vigor 
back to the limbs. He was wide awake and alert. Near by, 
he descried a man leaning upon one of the hogsheads, and 
regarding him with fixed attention. This person w’as past 
the middle age. The greater part of his face was hidden 
b}’ a grizzled beard and by a mustache, over which ap- 
peared his nose, glowing like a red-hot knob, in spite of 
copious irrigation from his bloodshot eyes. An imperishable, 
high-crowned, felt hat covered his head, shedding the rain 
upon a well-worn, dark sack-coat, of some fabric that seemed 
proof against storms. Vest and trousers of the same sub- 
stantial material composed the rest of his visible attire, and 
stout boots protected his feet from the mud, in which he stood 
nearly to his ankles. Well-seasoned he looked, and indiffer- 
ent to trivial discomforts, showing no dislike to the inclem- 
ent weather. Clouds of smoke burst from under his mus- 
tache, and from the bowl of a pipe that nestled in his beard, 
and, to complete the spectacle, his hands shook with a con- 
stant, excessive tremor. The appearance of this stranger 
made a deep impression on the Brand. He scanned him from 
head to foot, declaring to himself in a low, earnest tone of 
unalterable conviction, — 

“ He^s a Brand, — a growed~up Brand, he is.” 


102 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


In a moment the other remarked, “Chimes the quer}", 
who ? ” 

“Child o’ Satan,” replied the Brand. “But say, mister, 
wot a terrible, gay old bummer you be ! ” 

The Old Bummer paid no heed to the questionable compli- 
ment, but said : — 

“Now booms the query, where from?” 

“ Let her boom ! ” the Brand doggedly returned ; “ but see 
your talons quiver ; how gay they tremble ! ” 

“Where from, and when?” repeated the other, transferring 
bis elbows to another cask nearer the boy. The Brand 
backed off distrustfull}^ 

“ Nowhere, an’ not any time,” he answered. “ No use to 
chime an’ boom. I’m going down in my shell to close up 
tight, like Mr. Turtle.” 

The other pursued his inquiries no further for the time, but 
kept smoking and trembling with a tranquil, genial counte- 
nance. But the Brand’s experience hitherto had taught him 
to be vigilant of such reassuring facial repose. To himself 
he said, “ He’s getting read}" to warm, me.” Then he ex- 
claimed, — 

“ Oh, dear ! if 3^ou want to bang me, I wish’t you’d sail in 
an’ done with it. I wouldn’t tell you a word, not if 3’ou wos 
to heave me overboard. I’d like it, I would.” 

The Old Bummer fished with his hands, in his capacious 
pockets, with all the patience and more than the proverbial 
success of a professional angler, for he brought out a num- 
ber of smoked herrings ; and, as he held them up to view, 
in his tremulous right hand, he proudly" said, — 

“ There, now ; run your eye over them! Ain’t they a noble 
fish? Methink they be. Now chants the quer3% in what re- 
spect be the3' noble? Trumpets the answer, in respect to 
a empty stomach.” 

The Brand’s eyes sparkled with keen desire. There was 
no mistaking that look of hunger. “ Take care ! ” he cried ; 
“ hang on tight, or they’re gone fish ! ” 

“ There, Bub !” returned the other, “ throw them into your 
bread-basket ! They’ll make you spry.” 

“Fr’aps you might be baiting of me up!” replied the 
wary Brand. “I’ve had that game come on me many a 
time.” 


MR. FLINT EVE. 


10;) 


“ I have knowed many a noble tenant of the sea shook to 
atoms in that hand, — ruined in no time,” remarked the Old 
Bummer. “ And, was I to hazard a opinion on them partic- 
ular three, I should say they couldn’t last not more than one 
minute and seventeen seconds longer. On other mains I may 
lose my reckoning, but not on herring.” . 

“ I’ll risk it,” the Brand muttered, and then, approaching 
the old man, he took the fish. The first one disappeared 
almost in an instant. 

“ Now, that’s sing’lar,” said the Brand, as he began to 
devour the second. “You baited me up fair, an’ instead o’ 
planting a stunner under the ear, you came down with three 
fish, cos 3^011 seen my stummik wos holler ; 3 tju seen it in my 
eye. But I know a man as sets up for just the piousest one 
a-going. Noah an’ Enoch, an’ such ones, couldn’t hold a 
candle to him. Now, if lie^d found me almost gone-iu, with 
m}' stummik s’runk up like a raisin, he’d uv hooked right 
straight into me. He’d said I wos a prodigal son-of-a-gun, 
an’ had been eating shucks, an’ ought to come back to the 
milk. He has said so many a time. But it wouldn’t be no 
use. I don’t vvaut no more o’ that milk, — nor I wouldn’t go 
back nohow.” 

The other watched with manifest pleasure, while the half- 
famished boy swallowed the fish, and presently said, — 
“Still chimes the query, who?” 

“I wish’t 3’ou icotild kee’ still,” the Brand peevishl3’ re- 
turned. “ I never did see such a terrible old bummer, to 
keep rattling his talons an’ sa3dng ‘ who, who,’ all the time. 
Tell me who you be, first.” 

“ I ani Mr. Flinteye,” the Old Bummer impressivel}" an- 
nounced. “ I am nervous in the hands ; that’s the way they 
gen’ly fl}" till I get my reg’lars aboard. Herring is what 
done it, — too much herring and too little stiiilSlant ; they’re 
a wonderful nervous fish, is a herring.” 

“ Got the horrors, ain’t you?” inquired the Brand, witli 
kindling sympathy. 

“No,” replied Mr. Flinteye, “ I haven’t got the horrors, 
but I’m dreadful dry. But that’s branching off from our 
present main, which is, now what’s your name?” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” exclaimed the Brand, “ I knowed I couldn’t 
switch him off o’ that^ He’s one o’ them coves wot can’t bo 
switched off. Mr. Flinteye, won’t 3^011 tell, if I tell you? ” 


104 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Not a living soul nor a mortal frame ! ” the Old Bummer 
declared. 

“ True as 3’ou live? Say true as 3’ou live, Mr. Flinteve ! 

“Truer than that, Bubber, far truer,” was the emphatic 
response. The Brand looked cautiousl3^ around, apparently 
to assure himself that no one was eavesdropping, and then, 
shading his mouth with one hand, whispered, — 

“ It’s Henry, but don’t you tell ! ” 

“Now, don’t!” said Mr. Flinteye, with a most intelligent 
wink. 

“ Henry Smith 1 ” the Brand further explained, completing 
a cylinder round his mouth with the other hand. 

“I wouldn’t, if I was you,” returned the Old Buromer. 
“ Where’s the good of it? A sweet little name is Henry 
Smith, and a beautiful one to go down with unsophistyucated 
birds ; but, was I to stake ray opinion, 1 should say you and 
Henrv was not the same ident3mcal character. What’s 3’our 
lay?’*'’ 

“Oh, dear!” the Brand fretfully exclaimed. “I don’t 
know wot he means by lays, an’ such uncommon birds an’ 
things.” 

The Old Bummer explained the phrase. And, having 
made his meaning clear, he winked, with alternate e3’es, in 
a manner which intimated that he was already well informed 
on the matter and considered it sacredW confidential. 

“Oh, come that once more!” cried the admiring Brand, 
with growing familiarity. “ If you will, p’r’aps I’ll tell you.” 

Mr. Flinteye obligingly came it again with each eye. 

“ Wol, then. I’ll tell you,” said the Brand. “ The Sab- 
bcr-school lay is the one I’ve awluz been on, an’ the good- 
little-boy lay, — doing my best to come up, like I’d ought to 
be fetched up^ But I had to give in. I wos drove off of it. 
I set out on the right track, but wos h’isted off b3' a old cove 
ns wos great on the bang. Next, I went on the tramp, an’ 
now I ain’t got no lay, only to lay down in the mud an’ go off 
the hooks. It would be a gay thing for me if I could do it.” 

“ Now, go easy, Bubber !” returned Mr. Flinteye ; “ there’s 
a tremenduous la3^ a-looming on your frontier. You don’t 
know it, but I do. Tlirough my brain flils the query, do 
I put him onto that there enormous lay, or not? Likowavs 
flits the answer, I don’t know ; it varies. But 3’ou coma 


MR. FLINT EYE. 


105 


along to the Clover-Leaf, and, if I do put yon onto it, 5^0111- 
fortune’s made.” .As he concluded, the Old Bummer ex- 
tended Ids right hand toward the boy, bent his index-finger 
into a hook, by way of a beckoning gesture, and walked 
off. * • 

“ Such games ! ” softly exclaimed the Brand, with increas- 
ing admiration. He is a growed-up Brand, that’s a sure 
thing ; or else a public-one an’ a sinner. Anyhow, it’s my 
last hold.” And then, apparentl}’’ fascinated by the eccen- 
tric Mr. Flinteye, he started along behind him. Not with- 
out misgiving, however, did he follow this guide, for he 
hesitated, several times, and finally came to a halt. The 
other looked back and flexed his index-finger once, but said 
nothing. 

“ I don’t want to,” urged the Brand. 

Mr. Flinteye gazed upon him with a tranquil smile, and 
made two distinct hooks. 

“ You might be baiting of me on,” the Brand objected. 

In repl}' whereto the other simply hooked the air three 
times, rather forcibly, and came it quite seductively with 
his left eye ; and that combination of charms proved irre- 
sistible. Language could not describe the Brand’s admira- 
tion ; he smote his thigh, to intimate how incompetent he 
was to express his rapture^ and limped on with fresh confi- 
dence till they reached the Clover-Leaf. This was a small, 
dilapidated frame building, quite near the shoreward end of 
a long pier. Most of its neighboring cotemporaries had been 
supplanted b3' more substantial structures of brick ; but the 
Clover-Leaf, though rotten with age, shattered by storms, 
and warped and scorched by fires, still withstood the progress 
of modern improvement. A feeble, ragged chimney threat- 
ened the infii-m roof, out of which bulged two dormer-win- 
dows, like the protruding eyes of some huge crustacean. 
Over the door a file of reeling letters announced that this 
shabby tenement was the Clover-Leaf. 

‘‘Mv Gum!” ejaculated the Brand, as he deciphered the 
sign ; ‘‘ is here where you hang out, Mr. Flinteye?” 

'‘^Here she w,” the Old Bummer fondly declared ; “ the 
old Clover-Leaf herself, beyond a doubt. Run your eye over 
her, and tell me how she strikes you ! ” 

The Brand looked at the reeking gutter, snuffed the air. 


106 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


and then, grasping his nose, replied, in a shallow nasal 
tone, — 

“’Awful goaty 

Mr. Flinteye made no remark, but led the way into the 
Clover-Leaf and to a couple of chairs that flanked a round 
table. In shabbiness and decay the room corresponded with 
the exterior of the building. Its complexion was dingy, its 
aspect neglected. A composition of sand and sawdust cov- 
ered the floor, and from the ceiling hung tattered festoons of 
tissue-paper, in assorted colors. There was little furniture 
to be seen. The most conspicuous feature was a high coun- 
ter, with its tra}' of strongly-scented glasses, and a row of 
shelves whereon stood a number of bottles, labelled, “ H. 
Gin,’’ “ J. Rum,” “ P. Brandy,” and “B. Whiskey.” 

“There now,” said Mr. Flinte3’e, as he introduced his 
companion to his dwelling ; “ run 3’our eye over her, and tell 
me how she strikes you now ! ” And the Brand, allowing his 
eyes to rove around the place, replied, — 

“ I bet she ain’t been brushed up lately.” 

“ Never you mind her blemishes ! ” returned Mr. Flinte3’e ; 
“ every beaut3' has ’em, more or less. You look to the gcn’ral 
effect f ” 

“I call her gay!” exclaimed the Brand, attempting a 
stroke of flattery, with a view to^ulterior reward. “ Do 3’ou 
keep herrings? ” 

“ Bubber, I do,” returned Mr. Flinte3’e, with great affa- 
bilitv ; “ and more of them 3'ou shall have. I was merrily 
waiting. In the state 3'ou was in, it wouldn’t do to feed you 
up too rapid; 3’ou was dreadful near gone, — trenching 
mighty close onto the edge, Bubber, mighty close ; and a 
few more hours would rolled you over. Let Mr. Flinte3^e 
run this provision business for 3^011 1 ” 

Thereupon Mr. Flinteye j^roceeded to a back room and 
brought out some bread and milk, and more herrings. All 
of which the little starveling devoured. And ever3^ moment 
his heart warmed towards his benefactor. 

“ I never had anything so good I ” he cried. “ I bet I could 
eat a million.” 

“Was 3"ou to say a hundred,” replied Mr. Flinteye, “I 
don’t know as I’d bet against you. But they’re a nervous 
fish, unless well mixed with stimulant.” 


MH. FIJXTKYE. 


107 


Having delivered that opinion, Mr. Flinteye walked behind 
the counter and, passing the stem of his pipe through a button- 
hole of his coat, extended his forefinger and hooked the air. 

“ Wot makes you hook it so, Mr. Flinteye?” inquired the 
Brand. “ Do you awluz have to hook it afore you get 3’our 
reg’lars aboard, like 3’ou have to rattle an’ tremble?” 

“ Now 3’ou know well enough what I’m doing it for,” re- 
turned Mr. Flinte3'e, making two more hooks, and at tlie 
same time coming it briskly with his left eye. 

“No use to hang back,” confessed the Brand. “That 
lantern-game would fetch an3'bod3^” And he marched to the 
counter. The Old Bummer then poured out a quantity of 
rum for himself and, fastening his eyes, upon the boy, re- 
marked, — 

“ Trills the quer3", which? ” 

“ Not an3',” replied the Brand. “I don’t drink.” 

“ Methink Mr. Flinteye knows what’s good for 3'ou in 
3’Our present state,” returned the other. “ Now, don’t go back 
on the Old Gentleman ! Which?” 

“ B. Whiskey, then ! ” said the Brand, and Mr. Flinte3’e, 
having poured out the liquor for him, drained his own glass 
and replenished it. 

• “I wish’t it wos a herring,” remarked the Brand, trying to 
repress the tears that sprang into his e3’es at the first taste. 
“ Would 3"ou wrassle it again, Mr. Flinte3'e?” 

“That I would,” declared his host, “and, what’s more, 
I’d throw it. You need it bad. Pull away on it ! It’ll make 
you spry.” 

The Brand closed his eyes and wrestled it with resolution. 
Recovering from a spasm of strangling, he gasped, — 

“ Oh, dear me ! 1 wouldn’t uv done it for nobody else.” 

Mr. Flinteye seated himself by the table, lighted his pipe, 
and watched the effect of his remedy with benevolent interest. 
Nor was it loiig before the Brand began to grow loquacious. 

“Be my lanterns like yours, now, Mr. Flinteye?” he in- 
quired. “ Be they red an’ rummy? Cos, if they be, p’r’aps I 
can come it like you do. How kind o’ spry an’ flighty I feel ! ” 

“ Yes, you’re warming up to the thawing-point,” observed 
the tranquil Old Bummer. 

“ Be I meller, Mr. Flinteye?” pursued the Brand. “ Say, 
be I?” 


108 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


And the Old Bummer, regarding him with the eye of a con- 
noisseur, replied, “Not proper mellow, but verging to’ards 
it, methink.’^ Then, leaning back in his chair with a placid 
countenance, he came it many times with alternate eyes. 

“ Bubber, who picked 3’ou out the mud? ” he asked. 

“’Twos you.” 

“Who give you three noble fish to make you spiy, and 
(etched \’ou to the Clover-Leaf, and give j'ou a nip to make 
3’ou sprj’er?” 

“ ’Twos 3’Ou.” 

“Now, then, Bubber, looms the query, wherefore did Mr. 
Flinteye do it?” 

“That’s just wot rigs me,” declared the Brand. “I 
thought you wos on the burn, an’ wos baiting of me up fair, 
so you could i)ut in the auctioneer. But, oh ! how awful spry 
I feel 1 You never seen me dance 3'et. Just you spat, an’ 
I’ll show how spry I be ! ” 

Manifestl3^ the Old Bummer w^as not a disobliging pei-son. 
He began to spat his knees and the nimble Brand commenced 
his favorite dance, stirring up clouds of dust and singing 
boldly as he hopped, “ Zip ! zip ! zip ! with his toorul-loorul- 
lido ; zip! zip! zip! with his toorul-loorul-lay ! ” Skipping 
faster and faster he shouted, “ Spat away, Flinneye ; tune her 
up gay ! ” And the venerable Bummer, on whose countenance 
rested a beaming smile, kept spatting as gayly as he could, 
until the Brand’s head began to swim, and his steps to in- 
termit. 

“ Tain’t so easy as ’twos,” stammered the latter; “nor I 
ain’t so spry neither.” 

He saw two Mr. Flinteyes, sitting b3’ separate tables, both 
spatting their knees and coming it in concert. He saw a 
j>air of counters, tippiiig up, and twin tra3’s of glasses sliding 
oir. He saw duplicates of everything in the room ; saw the 
ilnor rise up and turn him over into a corner, and then, for 
several hours, observed nothing. 


CHANGE OF POSITIONS, 


109 


CHAPTER X. 

A CHANGE OF RELATIVE POSITIONS FOR PARTIES OF 
THE FIRST AND THE SECOND PART. 

“ I WOULD die for her ! ” 

Thus had Phoebe heard her champion declare with in- 
describable earnestness ; and not long thereafter she beheld 
him struggling in mortal combat for her sake. That scene 
she could never forget, — Dan lying beside his grim enemy, 
as still and white as death itself, and the Brand, pointing "at 
him with the mournful cry, “ Look ! how he’s kep’his word ! ” 

It is not improbable that her hand -saved his life when she 
closed the gaping wound, and stopped the loss of blood wiih 
bandages procured from her own clothing. But Dan was of 
a tough fibre, and descended from a hardy stock. Not much 
time did he require to rally from his hurt. Nor was it long, 
when he was able to venture out again, before he found his 
wa3" to the little red cottage whither he had been carried 
unconscious. During his convalescence, many were the 
delightful rambles he had with Phoebe, through the Cedars 
or up the meadows b^^ the winding Wepawaug, and among 
the waning glories of the woods. Every morning the south- 
ward flight of migratory songsters, and eveiy afternoon the 
flocking robins in the orchards, and the whistling quails in 
faded cornfields, told that those glorious autumn days would 
soon be gone. At length, golden October was past, with 
its mellow, dreamj’ sunshine, its gorgeous tints of dying 
foliage, and its clear, cool evenings lighted by the bright 
harvest-moon. Vacation was ended, and Phoebe returned to 
her place in the district-school. Most of the pupils of the 
previous term came back. High-benchers rocked themselves 
and ciphered furiously’ as before ; Low-benchers indulged in 
delusive dreams of speed}’ promotion, and dashed their 
knees together with looks of distress, while the zealous 
deacon, with his ugly glasses and heavy oaken ruler, went 
his rounds between the benches. His goggle-game was often 


no 


A YOUNG DISCTULE. 


played with masterly skill, and many were tlie benchers of 
each grade who suddenl}^ found themselves brought up by 
his favorite round-tnrn. Back and forth he stalked or 
sneaked, behind his trembling subjects, intent on confound- 
ing them with pitiful strategy, denouncing them for a genera- 
tion of vipers, and warning them, with significant emphasis, 
to flee from the wrath to come, Day by day the desks dis- 
played new intaglios^ carefully dusted over to hide their fresh- 
ness, and new streams of ink trickled down the walls. Nor 
was it seldom that the wrath came, from which the culprits 
could not flee, and woe unutterable was depicted on their 
countenances. Upon the pustulated face of the clock new 
pimples daily appeared, until that disfigured dial came to 
resemble an illustration of confluent smallpox. Now and 
then some incautious fly, lingering in the sun to warm his 
torpid blood, would fall into the clutches of a High-bencher, 
and presently be seen slowly sailing around, steered by a 
rudder of white paper, or drawing a long train of cotton 
thread. At recess the boys assembled as usual for their 
games. But their former leaders were missing. There .was 
no doubt of Jackedo’s fate ; and many a bencher had offered 
to wager untold sums that “ Old Big ” had fired his own barn 
for the express purpose of burning him to death. Pinchey, 
the cheat and bully, had never returned to school since he 
was thrashed by Dan, and soon thereafter he had disappeared 
from the village. He was a runaway, and among tlie boys 
it was rumored that he had gone to New York. Dan, the 
hero of the school, and a favorite with all, was pursuing his 
studies at home, preparing for college. Diligent lie was, 
but often, while he sat gazing upon his book, his thouglils 
w'ould wander off to regions where fancy built beautiful 
castles. He had resolved that some day, before many 
years, he w’ould collar Deacon Biggot, and ask him what he 
meant by punishing Phoibe. And he rather thought the 
deacon would feel exceedingly mean, when he should have 
him by the nape of the neck. But he would drag him up to 
Phoebe, and malce him kneel to beg her pardon. After that 
he’d pay him off for his cruelt}’ to the Brand, and then let 
him go tottering home with a bloody nose and two black 
eyes. But what if Phoebe should not love him? He was 
Blue he could not bear that. If some one else should win 


CUANGE OF POSITIONS. 


in 


her love, he knew it would kill him. But ho would not blame 
her. Not one reproach should escape his lips, lie would 
only send her the little blood-stained handkeichief that he 
carried near his heart, and write a letter asking her to for- 
give him, and tell her he wished that he had died I^dng b}’’ 
Bevor, under the chestnut-tree. But had she not kissed him 
when she thought him dead? And had she not kissed him 
many times since? 

When the winter came, and the Wepawaug was frozen 
hard and smooth, Dan would leave his books to join the 
meriy skaters, for Phoebe was sure to be waiting for him on 
the mill-pond. Not many hours like those can a lifetime 
yield. Phoebe sits upon her sled and holds her shawl 
wrapped close. Then, with Dan’s skates fast bound and his 
strong hands on her shoulders, off they go like the wind. 
Now, speed away ! Speed away ! With long, powerful 
strokes, Dan sweeps altemateh^ to the right and left, while 
before him glides the sled, straight as an arrow, and swift as 
a bird. Hurrah ! hurrah ! Away they under the white 
bridge, up the stream and down again, and Phoebe shouts 
with delight, as the}^ dodge the swiftest pursuer b}^ a feint to 
t he right, and a sudden turn far off to the left. The next mo- 
ment she would swoon witli terror, only that Dan is there. 
They are darting along quite close to the edge of the high 
mill-dam, and Phoebe can look sheer down on the sharp, 
black, jutting rocks, where the white water whirls, and boils, 
and roars so loud, almost under the sled. The voices of the 
others are instantly hushed. Phoebe hears Dan’s breath close 
to her ear, and feels his grasp grow firmer on her shoulder. 
She turns her bright eyes up to his, and then looks down 
into the deep abyss, mocking the muffled thunder of the 
waterfall, laughing at the eddies, and throwing a kiss to the 
bubbles bursting in the foam. Fear is unknown, for she is 
with Dan, and to her he seems almost godlike. And yet 
the}" are shooting along the very brink of death. A single 
slip, a turn of the foot, or even a straw in their path, could 
hurl them over the verge. But Dan never slips. His skates 
are sharp, his nerves steady, his eye true. A long, graceful 
curve cairies them out of danger, and in a moment they are 
speeding up the pond again, leaving the fleetest far behind, 
liut evening is drawdng near, and Phoebe must go. Dan says 


112 


A YOU NO DISCIPLE. 


that he has an errand in that direction, and he will take her 
home by way of the river. They speed away under the white 
bridge again, past the churches, past the quince-trees bend- 
ing with snow, under the distant foot-bridge, and up the river 
to the meadows. Beyond, all is a Polar region, inaccessible 
to skaters. While Dan unfastens his straps, Phoebe says 
she’s never had such a splendid time in all her life, and that 
it’s real good and kind of him to come so far ; and he, 
tugging harder, makes answer that he couldn’t help being 
kind to her, for — for — well, because he couldn’t. Then, 
hanging his skates round his neck, he helps her up the bank, 
seats her on the sled again, and draws her over the snow to 
the gate. 

‘•Come ngain to-morrow!” he sa^s, and hurries home to 
supper and to his books. All the evening he tries to conju- 
gate the Latin verb, repeating over and over, “Amo, ama.s, 
amaL amarmis^ amatis^ amant.” But it is slow travelhng up 
the hill of science, with that vision of laughing blue eyes, and 
dimples, and sunny curls, bewildering his thoughts. At last, 
he gives it up and goes to bed, repeating, “Ama&o, semper 
amaho.,” and is soon dreaming of Phmbe. Sleep transports 
him to fairy land, as by the touch of a magic wand. The ice 
and snow are gone, and summer has come again. He is 
walking up the lane, hand-in-hand with Phoebe. They climb 
over the stone wall to look for sweet anise ; and he laughs 
aloud to see her start at the rustling of a little garter-snake. 
Her straw hat is stuck full of violets. Dan tells her that the 
violets are not half so blue ns her eyes, and Phoebe, 
looking archly up at him, replies that she “ can’t help it if 
they ain’t.” Laughing joyously, running by his side, picking- 
daisies and plucking out their petals, she says to one, “He 
loves me,” and to the next, “ He loves me not.” When the 
last petal comes away with “ He loves me,” Dan exclaims, 
“ It’s all right. The daisies know:” And wonderfully do 
those daisies agree. Only one is found to show that he loves 
her not. Whereat, Dan declares that daisy to be a simple- 
ton, and too 3’oung, besides, to know anything about it. 
That time, he affirms, the test was unfair ; and Phoebe, 
suggesting that, perhaps, it was not the right kind of daisy, 
or that she began wrong, plucks another and tries again. 
They stop to watch an eagle sailing in circles a thousand 


CHANGE OF POSITIONS. 


113 


feet above them, and Dan sa 3 ^s if he only had his gun he 
might possibl}' “ fetch him.” He’d “ have a crack at him, 
anyhow ; just for fun.” The next minute he sees Phoebe 
running through the daisies, and Bevor bounding after her 
with open jaws. Now she is flying across the meadow, 
leaping from bog to bog, among the rushes near the river. 
Bevor is gone, but Deacon Biggot, fiercer than the savage 
mastiff, is striving to clutch her hair. Looking back, with 
terror in her e^’es, Phoebe cries, “He loves me not!” and 
plunges over where the stream, full ten feet deep, curls under 
the bank. Dan sees the deacon gazing into the dark pool, 
and hears his hateful voice bleating a pra 3 'er, and, with a 
cry of anguish, he plunges over after her. Fi’om that 
dreadful crisis he awoke to find the cold sunlight of - a 
winter morning struggling through icy barriers on the win- 
dows, while the breakfast bell was jangling its summons at 
the foot of the stairs. In no long time he was seated at the 
table with his mother. But the family arc was incomplete. 
Mr. Babbon loitered in the sitting-room, under shallow pre- 
tence of looking for his handkerchief. He bustled about a 
few’ minutes, then listened for the sound of knives and forks. 
But silence reigned. Accordingh’, he renewed the search, 
and prosecuted it with diligence until his wife called out — 

“We are all ready, Mr. Babbon, and waiting.” 

He took a rapid, aimless circuit around the room, and 
then appeared at the table wdth the object of his quest in his 
hand. Fertile in expedients, he began to whet the carving- 
knife wdth a vigor that threatened to wear it down to a bodkin. 
His consort made not the least movement towards pouring 
the coflee, but sat, with forced composure and folded hands, 
while he executed a brilliant stroke. 

“ ’Twas just such plaguey carelessness,” said he, “that 
lost one of m 3 ’ best handkerchiefs in New York, last week. 

I stopped in a sample-room to get a glass of whiskey — ” 

“A sample-room ! ” cried the startled lady, with an accent 
of incredulity. “ Mr. Babbon, 3 ’ou did not.” 

“I said 1 fh’d,” he firml 3 ’ protested, and passed his knife , 
through the steak. 

“ Sample-room 1” Mrs. Babbon again exclaimed, dwelling 
on the w^ord with long, sibilant scorn. “ Samples of ivliatl 
Red-eyed tipplers? Red-nosed wine-bibbers? Red-necked 


114 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


drunkards? Samples.^ indeed, of the degraded and the vile ! 
Specimens of Avife-beaters among them, too, I presume, 
from Elngland and Ireland. I am amazed, Mr. Babbon, to 
hear that you ever set foot in a room devoted to such 
bestial samples.” 

Mr. Babbon was seiwing out the breakfast as fast as he 
could. 

“Of course, my dear,” he resumed, “nothing but an 
emergency could induce me to enter one of those dens. I 
happened to see an old lad}- slip and fall on the sidewalk, and 
when I reached her, she had fainted. I fan in there and got 
some liquor to bathe her face. That's what the tvhiskey was 
for.” 

“ I wonder whether she was so very oH,” remarked Mrs.- 
Babbon, with a resentful sense of having been betrayed into 
an unnecessary exhibition of feeling. “ I have heai’d that 
young females frequently slip in New York, and also fall.” 

“ Yes.” Mr. Babbon obtusely returned, “ the sidewalks are 
very bad. There ought to be a law compelling people to 
sprinkle sand in front of their premises eveiy time it’s icy.” 

“And it were well,” observed his wife, “if somebodj" 
could sand the path of duty for you.” 

“ I’ve never found anybody that could sand it just right 
for themselves,” said he. “ But I’ve seen a good main’ that 
knew exactly how to fix it for their neighbors. Now, take 
Deacon Biggot, for example.” 

“ Well, we ivill take Deacon Biggot,” agreed Mrs. 
Babbon ; “ and I sa}’ he’s a bright and shining example of 
true, Christian character. Not a seeker after the dross 
of this world, Imt a harvester of souls, — a faithful laborer 
in the vine3’ard of the Lord.” 

To which Mr. Babbon made no answer. It occurred to 
him that appearances are deceptive the world over, and 
especially in that vineyard ; and that many objects therein 
which he had once supposed faithful laborers, had proved, 
upon a nearer view, to be nothing but rank weeds. But 
he kept silent, having alread}^ accomplished his design, and 
the meal was partaken of unblessed. Mr. Babbon turned 
his thoughts from domestic affairs to business concerns, but 
found no comfort there. A gloom settled on his face. He 
was thinking of Carman, Spelter, & Co., and of the 3’ears 


CHANGE OF POSITIONS. 


115 


that had dragged along, only carrying him further out on a 
troubled sea of boundless litigation. The frequent demands 
of his lawyers could be silenced only with mone}', and 
Gridly clung like an insatiable leech, always presenting 
new accounts of expense with his eternal “As per contract, 
you know ; as per said contract between John Babbon, 
party of the first part, and Peter Gridly, partly of the second 
part.’^ Gridly had thrown aside the mask. Formerly, with 
funds at command, Mr. Babbon could satisfy him and shake 
him off, for a time. But, now that his resources were nearly 
exhausted, Gridly had given up his oily^ speech, and could 
not be shaken off. Step by step he assumed control of their 
joint interests, until even the lawyers had come to speak 
of them, not as Babbon & Gridly, but as Gridly & 
Babbon. Mr. Babbon would gladly have sold his interest 
now. But nobody would bu}* that lawsuit, or even advance 
money on it. He must stagger along under his burden 
the best he could. His wife, to do her justice, had distrusted 
Gridly from the begimiing. Veiy earnestly had she 
counselled her husband to keep aloof from him, and from 
all connection with that business ; and, now that its cares 
weighed, heavily, she took a melancholy pleasure in re- 
minding him of the fact. That particular morning she had 
been wound exceedingly tight by her trials with the poor 
Imbecile. But, however deficient the maid may have l3een 
in faculties essential to culinary success, she certamly had 
a clear perception of her mistress’ infirmity; and, when 
baited to a high degree, she reaped a malicious joy from any 
annoyance she could devise to give that nervous spring an 
extra turn. Accordingly, while Mr. Babbon’s spoon was 
mixing sweetness in his cup, and thoughts of Gridly were 
stirring bitterness in his heart, Bridget was avenging herself 
at the pump. Her mistress listened, with desperate calmness, 
to the gasping and wheezing of the croupy apparatus, though 
profound misery brooded on her countenance. But the 
worthy lady was resolved upon testing how great a strain 
her shattered nerves could endure, and the breakfast was 
at last ended in peace. 

Those winter days are very like each other in Mr. Babbon’s 
house. Dan buries himself among his books, up-stairs, 
while his father bends over bis desk, in the sitting-room, 


116 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


pulling out bundles of papers from the pigeon-holes. Around 
him grow piles of letters, bills, copies of decrees, and of 
judgments. The shadow never leaves his face wliile he 
searches here and there, stopping, at times, to decipher 
some scrawl of Gridly’s, then tossing it impatiently aside, 
and responding to a fretful voice in the adjacent room with 
the exclamation, “Chafe! chafe! chafe! Rasp! rasp! 
rasp!” — restless, often sighing, eager for a gleam of hope, 
finding none. In the afternoon his wife brings out a basket 
of needle- work as inexhaustible as the Widow’s cruse of oil, 
and, while her nimble fingers ply their task, her tuneful 
soul finds vent in the solemn iambics of Dr. Watts. Slowly 
the cross-baiTed patch of sunshine creeps over the caipet, 
and shrinks and fades on the wall. But still Mr. Babbon 
sits there, unfolding fresh documents, and occasionally re- 
peating, in a monotonous, mechanical voice, — 

“ And your orators will ever pray ; and \^our orators will 
ever pray.” 

Sometimes he covers his face with his hands, and his wife 
secretly liopes that he is reflecting on his unregenerate con- 
dition ; or he walks to the window, and stands gazing out in 
gloom}^ abstraction, while Mrs. Babbon audibly .wonders 
whether he’s bowing away at the altar of Mammon. He 
makes no reply, for he does not hear. She, worthy soul, 
looking out with chronic affliction impressed on eveiy feature, 
secs the gardens, fences, and ti*ees, white with snow, and 
nothing else, except the ice-clad mill-pond, with the white 
bridge spanning it, and the two white chui’ches flanking it; 
but he, standing there so patiently, gazing out so wearily, 
sees the accumulations of a lifetime in the hands of an 
enemy, — sees the sheriff in his house, and Gridly laughing 
with his infernal hiss. Unrelenting ix)verty stares him 
strangely in the face, and, sickening at the sight, he turns 
back to his desk, repeating, — 

“ And your orators will ever pray ; and your orators will 
ever pray.” 

Sometimes he stretches himself on the lounge to forget his 
troubles in sleep, and not infrequently betrays liis disquietude 
by a half-repressed groan. Penitential it sounds to the de- 
vout wife, like the anguish of awakening conscience when 
the stubborn sinner suddenly finds himself in the distressful 


CHANGE OF POSITIONS. 


117 


state of conviction, an<l she admonishes him that “ their 
worm dieth not,” adding thereto, with impressive deliberation, 
the comfortless intelligence that “ their fire is not quenched.” 
At times he paces to and fro, with downcast eyes, and hands 
clasped behind his back, contriving some way to frustrate 
Gridly’s schemes; and the fretful wife asks him to 
not tramp the caipet to tatters. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” he absently replies ; but he keeps 
on pacing. Heavenly resignation then visits her counten- 
ance ; but every footfall winds her tighter, until she drags a 
cylinder of oil-cloth from an adjoining room and unrolls it in 
her husband’s path. Whereby he is instantW rooted to the 
floor ; while she, pressing both hands low down on her spine, 
utters a piteous moan, and “fears” she has “done it at 
last.” He maintains his composure, simpty expressing the 
belief that she has not. 

“I’ve alwa3‘s expected it,” she munnurs ; “ and now it’s 
done.” 

Guilty anxiety grows upon him. He begs her to tell 
what it is that she has done ; but she only clenches her back 
tighter, and explains to invisible sjnnpathizers that once 
she was strong and health}^ ; that she does not reproach her 
husband, for she knows that he did not mean to do it ; but 
that ever since — and here she arrives at eloquent silence. 
A recollection, vague and dim, occurs to Mr. Babbon. 

“ John, }"ou must help me to the lounge,” his wife faintly 
says ; “I can’t walk a step, alone.” 

Looking exceedingly sheepish and out of his element, he 
assists her to the lounge, and she feebly sighs, “I can bear 
it, John ; and, perhaps, rest will restore me. At all events, 
I shall ever be a dutiful wife, whatever suffering it ma}" 
cause.” 

Whereupon he ventures to suggest that probably she hasn’t 
done it, after all, whatever it may be, and she straightway 
sinks into a collapse. 

In such wise the days wear away. Dan applies himself 
to his studies with increasing ardor, building beautiful 
castles for himself and Phoebe, and longing to reach that 
bright future which seems so enchanting, but so distant. 
Day after day Mr. Babbon bends over his desk, or wanders 
restlessly about the house, or stands at the window, watch- 


118 


A YOU NO DISCIPLE. 


ing the fitful movements of the ignis fatuus. But from his 
anxious sighs his wife draws hope of ultimate regeneration, 
not forgetting to remind him, now and then, that Gridly is 
a hanker -worm, sent by Providence to gnaw his stubborn 
heart. 


CHAPTER XI. 

LILIES AND ROSES. 

After supper Phcebe sits by the cheerful fireside, learning 
her lessons for the next day, — often thinking of Dan, and 
often wondering at the bright round spot on her aunt’s cheek. 
Every morning that crimson flush is faded to the whiteness 
of alabaster, and Plioebe says she is sure it is the cough 
that drives awa}* her aunt’s roses. But every afternoon the 
red spots begin to glow again, and when Phoebe comes home 
from school she says,' “ Aunt.y, your roses are in blossom,” or 
“ Aunty, your lilies are gone again.” She likes the roses, 
but for white lilies she has a feeling of superstitious dread. 
She observes that her aunt coughs, and has to stop and rest 
half-way up the stairs, when her cheeks look so pale. And, 
then, there is the story of her mother ; for Phoebe had heard 
how she was burned to death by a shocking accident ; and 
that her father had fled from the house with her little brother 
in his arms, neither of whom had ever been heard of since, 
and that a wreath of white lilies was laid upon her mother’s 
grave. Weeks pass awa}^ but the cough persists, and every 
da}" those lilies and roses come and go just the same, except 
that they grow a clearer white and a deeper red. At times, 
Phoebe stays at home to help do the housework ; happy days 
are these, for Phoebe cannot read the language of the lilies 
and the roses. Freed from the hated school-room, she fills 
their home with gladness ; but a change is coming slowly 
over the little household. The aunt longs for Phoebe’s re- 
turn from school ; she folds her oftener in her arms ; and, 
sometimes, she looks upon her so tenderly, and yet so sadly, 
that Phoebe feels some unknown, holy influence stealing over 
them. At length, when all domestic remedies had failed, 
the doctor was summoned. 


LILIES AND ROSES, 


119 


“Ah! Good-evening, Miss Martin,” said that mighty 
man of science, entering the room with superior dignity, and 
saluting his patient with a carefull3"-regulated, monomial 
bow. “ Not sei ioiislv ill I hope.” 

So habitual w\as this phrase that the doctor had almost 
come to believe it tlie expression of a genuine feeling. 

“Oh, no, doctor,” his patient replied; “I don’t suppose 
it’s anything serious. But I don’t feel exactly well, either,” 
and that indelinite statement was followed b^’ an explanatory 
cough. 

“Pectoral? pectoral?” inquired the learned man, with a 
professional elevation of the eyebrows. “Pulmonary? pul- 
monary ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t think so,” replied Miss Martin. “ The 
trouble seems to be all in the throat. This cough has lasted 
since fall, and I can’t get rid of it; but it’s only an irrita- 
tion in the throat. I’ve always been subject to hard colds, 
at this time of year. I shouldn’t mind it at all only it 
makes me so weak.” 

“ Precisely, Miss Martin, precisely,” returned the doctor; 
“and very debilitating are these chronic pulmonary affec- 
tions. The misfortune is they are so insidious. Great 
mischief is apt to have occurred before the physician is con- 
sulted.” 

Thereupon he took a seat beside his patient, and examined 
her pulse, while Phcebe, sitting near, scrutinized his face 
with anxious attention. Her thoughts reverted to the time 
when she had first seen him in that room ; and the myste- 
rious monitor which told her that Dan would soon be well, 
now began whispering to her heart a silent warning. But 
the doctor was reading the language of the lilies and the 
roses. Plainl}^ enough they spoke to him. Alas for Phoebe ! 
The roses she loved so well were but footprints of the deadly 
hectic, and the lilies she dreaded so much flourish best where 
life is slowly" waning. 

The doctor sat, watch in hand, gazing alternately at the 
floor and at the ceiling. “A veiy rapid pulse. Miss Martin, 
very rapid, indeed,” he remarked, with an ominous look, and 
Phoebe, intent on every syllable, was smitten with alarm. 
“Wonderful discoveries, though, in the diagnosis of pul- 
monary lesions,” he continued, with true professional enthu- 


120 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE, 


siasm ; “percussion and auscultation. They are the keys lo 
unlock the arcana of the respiratory organs.” 

Thereupon, the wise man applied his two scientific keys to 
the sick woman’s chest, first thumping it very thoroughly, 
and then listening with his ear pressed against it. And, 
while he moved his head from one region to another, he re- 
marked in a voice of cheerful gratification, as though every 
moment finding fresh confirmation of previous opinion, — 
“Yes, 3’es; bronchial and cavernous; bronchial and caver- 
nous. Pectoriloquy and crepitation. Clear case, clear case: 
a perfect storm of rhonchus and sibilus.” 

Phoebe sat, with parted lips, gazing at the doctor as at the 
oracle of life and death ; and the patient, growing anxious 
as fast as her physician grew cheerful, inquired, in a tremu- 
lous voice, — 

“ You don’t think it’s seated on my lungs do j’ou, doctor? ” 

“Oh! most assuredly. Miss Martin, most assuredly,” re- 
turned the doctor. “ Right lung all broken down, long ago ; 
left apex stuffed with tubercles. I think I never heard a 
more beautiful rhonchus. Cooing exactly like a dove, eveiy 
breath you draw. A serious case ; a very serious case, 1 do 
assure 3’ou.” 

The patient could read the language of the lilies and the 
roses now, and that inevitable hour, which had alwa3’s seemed 
so distant, flashed before her like a present reality. On her 
cheeks the roses faded, and the lilies usurped their place, 
while Phoebe came and locked her arms around her neck. 

“ The Lord’s will be done ! ” she murmured. 

“Not without a struggle on our part,” declared the 
learned man; “not without a struggle on our part, I do, 
indeed, assure you.” 

“For her sake, doctor,” said the patient, appealingly, — 
“ for her sake, I would wish to live.” 

Notwithstanding all his pretension and assumption of 
familiarity with nature’s secrets, the doctor had a kind, sym- 
pathetic heart. He turned aside to hide his emotion, and 
began to search his saddle-bags for some of those famous 
remedies whose virtues he was wont to extol. He was no 
stranger to such scenes. Many had he seen fall before the 
same remorseless foe. One after another, full of confidence 
in Ills art, had called him to their aid only to linger awhile, 


LILIES AND ROSES. 


121 


hopeful almost to the last hour. Over their faces the morn- 
ing pallor and the crimson flush had stolen, day after da3’. 
till the task was done. Phoebe understood nothing of the- 
doctor’s technical lore, but the unknown, silent monitor 
within her heart kept whispering a tale of overwhelming 
sorrow. 

“Oh, Aunt^M ” she sobbed, “it’s all those dreadful lilies. 
Can’t the doctor keep them off? Won’t he give you medicine 
to drive them awaj"? Dear aunty, they make me afraid. 
*Twas lilies the}- put on mother’s coffin, and it’s the lilies 
that always come and drive away 3’our roses.” 

The learned prescriber of pills and potions omitted all 
further display of wisdom. Hastening to leave a scene 
painful even to him, he handed his patient the drugs he had 
selected, and departed with one of his characteristic bows. 
But this time it was binomial, and sympathy expanded it to 
a high power. 

“A very promising child, though 1 say it strictly inter 
nos” he remarked with habitual caution, and was about to 
add, “ I do, indeed., assure you,” when it occurred to him 
that nobody was near to wonder at his Latin, or to require 
an}" assurance ; so, he drove off without further speech, until 
the stumbling of his horse provoked a hasty epithet, when he 
quickly assured the insulted quadruped that he said it 
strictly inter nos et sub rosa. 

That was a sorrowful night for Phoebe. Long after she 
had tucked herself in bed she lay thinking of the doctor’s 
visit, and striving to silence in her heart that solemn, mys- 
terious warning of something that was to come between 
herself and her beloved aunt. But in the morning she saw 
the fatal lilies as pale as ever. 

Every day the doctor came ; but, in spite of his “ exceed- 
ingly valuable therapeutic agents,” in spite of pill-boxes and 
vials accumulating on the mantel, and despite Phoebe’s daily 
prayers, the patient slowly failed. At length came the time 
when Phoebe was freed from thraldom at the district-school, 
for her aunt was confined to her room ; and, though neither 
would confess it, both felt the sure approach of the final 
parting. Every morning Phoebe prepared the breakfast, and 
towards noon she made a comfortable resting-place in the 
larg(' rocking-chair, with blankets and pillows, and drew if 


122 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


near the window ; for her aunt loved to sit where the 
warm sunlight could flow all around her. She felt its sooth- 
ing, healing power as no one can, excei)t an invalid. Never 
till now had she known the luxury of bathing in it hour 
after hour, and feeling its genial warmth stealing over her 
senses like some impalpable but sweet and potent anodyne, 
charming away her pain, and giving new lease of life. 
She would sit there forev^er, enchanted b}^ the glorious splen- 
dor, <lrinking deep draughts of exquisite delight, never sur- 
feited with the delicious rays, but always finding in them 
some new virtue, some magic spell, sufficient to banish every 
ill. After the housework of the day was done Phoebe, whose 
presence was as necessary to the sick woman as the sun- 
beams themselves, would sit near her with her sewing, or 
read to her from some entertaining book. Sometimes they 
talked of the coming spring ; and Phoebe used to say she was 
sure her aunty would feel better when the birds, the leaves, 
and the flowers, came back. Often Dan called, bringing a 
present of quails or partridges, and these visits were to 
Phoebe what the sunshine was to her aunt ; for Dan was 
always light-hearted, and the sadness that had latterly grown 
upon Phoebe would give way to his stories of adventure in 
the woods. These thrilling narrations he occasionally varied 
with wonderful tales of mythology, culled from the Latin 
reader and embellished with such startling exclamations as 
Infandum nefas!” and Mirabile dictuP’ and when 
Phoebe, filled with admiration, regretfully sighed that she 
could never learn so much, he comforted her with the reply 
that he would learn enough for both. He would stay till 
sunset, and then Phoebe would watch him from the window, 
tramping through the snow with his gun over his shoulder, 
often turning for another look at her, or waiting for a chance 
to display his skill on some stray bird, before the bend of the 
road hid him from sight. After supper she would read till 
bedtime, and then tuck herself in beside her aunt, often 
thinking of the terrible lilies, often hoping to dream of Dan. 

One evening Deacon Biggot came on a visit of consola- 
tion. He was noted for such errands, and was accustomed 
to plan them with skill, as was manifest from the fact that 
he generally appeared at supper time. As the hour of the 
evening meal varied with the seasons, so did the hour of 


LILIES AND ROSES. 


123 


tht'se holy visits. In winter the deacon, like the darkness, 
always came, early. On this occasion, however, he was at 
fault. Phoebe had just folded the table-cloth and laid it 
away when he knocked. She opened the door, and, con- 
cealing her antipathy the best she could, politely said, — 
Please walk in, sir.” 

The good man entered, bending beneath a load of humil- 
ity, and metaphorically clad in those garments of meekness 
which he was always exhorting his neighbors to put on. A 
thorough appreciation of those Christian graces had Deacon 
Biggot, but his metaphorical raiment had somehow got 
twisted and rolled into a burdensome pack upon his should- 
ers, and there it clung fast, like an enormous tumor, in- 
visible,* indeed, but making him fairly totter with lowliness. 
Creeping to the bedside with his stealthy, abject step, 
gasping with overflowing sanctity, and making his voice 
quaver like a bleating goat, he began : — 

“Beloved sister, do you find it g-o-o-d to be afflicted? 
Do you find it p-recious to your soul? ” 

Unprepared to admit that it was good, for soul or body, 
to shake with chills, to burn with fever, and to be racked 
with pain, the invalid evaded the question by asking her 
visitor to be seated ; and he tottered across the room, and 
back again with a chair. 

“ Dearly beloved,” he resumed, as he toppled and settled 
into his seat, “ the dread hour cometh when thou must 
yield up this tabernacle to worms and to dust. A-shes to 
ashes and d-ust to dust.” 

At the first sound of his tongue Phoebe had been seized 
with shuddering. Not that she feared any violence, for 
there was a sense of security in the protection of home, but 
every nerve in her body was jarred by that vibrating throttle, 
as by a harsh filing upon a thin edge of hard metal. Dis- 
mayed at his language, she threw herself upon the bed, and 
clasped her arms around her aunt, as if to shield her. But 
the deacon, who was endeavoring to make a lasting impres- 
sion on the stony heart of the niece, while he discharged a 
sacred duty to the aunt, derived a holy pleasure from that 
mnrk of success. His zeal was not abated, nor were his 
efforts relaxed. Gasping fervently, and biting at the air, 
inflating his cheeks like a bugler, and transfixing Phoebe 


124 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


with liis cold green e3'es, he bleated again, more woefully 
than before : — 

“ A-shes to ashes, and d-ust to dust.” 

“ Oh, sir, there is but one tie to keep me here !” cried the 
invalid-. “Death has no terrors for me ; 3’et I long to live. 
How can I leave my darling ! ” 

Phoebe clung fast to her aunt in dreadful anguish, sob- 
bing as if her heart would break. 

“ I was thinking,” resumed the deacon, with a valve-like 
play of his leathern cheeks, as he improvised a toucliing 
little fiction, — “I was thinking, just now, of a sad, sad inci- 
dent that happened some ^^ears since. Nineteen years ago,” 
— it was characteristic of the good man’s incidents that they 
all occurred at a period sufficiently’ remote to defy drdinary 
research, — “yes, just nineteen years ago to-night,’" he 
bleated, in thrilling tones, “ a little girl w’as sitting by" her 
aunt’s dying bed. Oh ! well do I remember that fair young 
girl ! About the age of this little one, with just such dark- 
blue eyes and just such curly tresses. But s/ie was a pious 
child,” — insinuating that he could lay his finger on a child 
with dark-blue ey'es and curling tresses who was anything 
but religious. But, knowing that the deacon’s parables 
alway’s ended with some awful climax, and remembering that 
all the pious little ones she had heard him speak of had met 
a shocking fate, Phoebe drew comfort from the thought that 
she was not as devout as that little unfortunate who had 
flourished, and no doubt had perished, just nineteen years 
previously. 

“ She had early" forsaken the vanities of the world, and 
was ready, at that tender age, a shining light,” bleated the 
deacon, distending his cheeks like balloons and intimating 
that he knew some one who had not forsaken the vanities of 
the world, and who was not a shining light. But Phoebe 
found fresh solace in this widening of the breach between 
herself and the pious, but fated, offspring of her tormentor’s 
brain. 

“ Oh ! well do I remember,” continued the deacon, “ the 
b-l-e-ssed season I that evening enjoy’ed ! As I entered the 
sick chamber that sainted child was kneeling by her mother’s 
dying'bed ; for that little maiden had never forgotten her 
Creator in the days of her youth.” 


LILIES AND ROSES. 


125 


Perceiving that he had in mind another little maiden who 
was supposed to have forgotten her Creator from her cradle, 
and believing herself the subject of his invidious comparison, 
Phoebe reaped further comfort from this new distinction be- 
tween herself and the fictitious little saint. An inconsist- 
ency, too, strengthened her doubts of the existence of any 
such 3 ’oung saint, and she inquired if the good little girl’s 
mother and auntv^ were both in the same dying bed. Where- 
by the deacon was somewhat disconcerted. But, recovering 
speedily^, he continued, — 

‘‘ By the bedside of that loving relative, 1 should sa 3 ^ who 
was so soon, and oh ! so suddenly, to leave her forever.” 
Once more he gasped, in a voice that seemed to come quaver- 
ing up from the depths of some unseen sepulchre, “A-shes 
to ashes and d-ust to dust,” and Phoebe’s transitory* com- 
fort vanislied. 

“ When she rose to greet me, so meek and lowly,” he re- 
sumed, visibly* settling under his invisible pack, “I could 
but think, of such is the kingdom of heaven. The aunt was 
failing rapidly*. 1 tried to quote a few precious promises, but 
she was no longer conscious. So soon, alas ! so soon, she 
was struggling with the king of terrors. But, while the 
death-damp bedewed her temples, oh ! what a blessed privi- 
lege to behold the triumphant smile upon those wasted fea- 
tures ! ” 

Here the wily zealot paused a moment, and, well versed in 
signs of youthhd emotion, discovered that Phoebe was near 
fainting. There was hope that the stony* heart must yield at 
last. He swallowed the air, as if banqueting on spiritual 
manna, and dismally croaked : 

“Oh! how refreshing it was, while the death-pangs were 
clutching at the vitals of her beloved aunt, to hear that little 
sainted one exclaim, ‘ I do not repine ; Ikiss the rod I ’ Oh ! 
how sweet it was, while death’s cold flood was rising o’er the 
departing one ; yes, how sweet to hear that little voice sing- 
ing, ‘ Oh, where shall rest be found? ’ ” 

Again the good man paused, to gird his soul for a final 
effort, while he watched the color deserting Phoebe’s lips. 
Then, with all the machinery of his eyes, his cheeks, and his 
gullet, in rapid motion, and in a voice thick with coming hor- 
rors, he resumed : 


126 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Upon the table lay a bunch of posies. Bringing them to 
the bed of death, that sainted child selected a single lily — ” 

Phoebe’s face was perfectly white. “ Don’t ! don’t ! ” she 
cried. “ Oh, Aunty ! those dreadful, dreadful lilies ! ” And 
her annt, scarcely less agitated, pressed her closer to her 
bosom, while the deacon, astonished at his success, con- 
cluded his narrative abruptly with a sympathetic groan. A 
few more passages he quoted from the Scriptures, and then 
hastened his departure. But, observing symptoms of recovery 
in the younger victim, he admonished them in one prolonged 
bleat, that ‘‘one must be taken and the other left,” and then 
tottered off under his metaphorical pack. 

So February passed and March came, with warmer air and 
blustering winds ; with melting snow, and freshets rolling the 
ice down to tlie sea ; with daffodils in the gardens, and 
straggling patches of green on the brown meadows. Phcebe 
could go to church no longer, for she dared not leave her 
aunt alone. But she loved to stand at the door, listening to 
the distant bell. Her mysterious monitor now whispered 
oftener to her heart, and never so peacefully as on fair 
Sabbath mornings, when those clear, mellow tones came 
floating from the village. They spoke to her of heaven. 
Even the terrible lilies seemed almost lovel}^ then. Through 
the raw, murky April how eagerly she watched for the 
returning birds, and how gladly she saw the green patches 
spreading all over the fields. She hoped that the pure, mild 
air of May would bring renewed strength to her aunt. And 
May came, after many wearisome days. The leaves, the 
flowers, and the birds, all came back. The meadows were 
covered with bright green grass, and the trees bent with 
blossoms. Every morning the Cedars echoed to the chatter- 
ing thrashes, and every evening the orchards were filled with 
the melody of robins. There was indeed a brighter lustre in 
the invalid’s eyes, but, day by da}^ the lilies and the roses 
gathered new vigor from her wasting life. Almost every day 
Dan came in, bringing a present of some delicac}^ from his 
mother, and Mrs. Babbon herself often called, for in sick- 
ness or trouble no neighbor could be more kind than she. 
It was after one of these visits, one Sunday afternoon in the 
earl}^ summer, that Miss Martin broke the news to PlKcbe, 
that, sometime, she would go to live with Dan’s mother. 


LILIES AND ROSES. 


127 


Now that Phoebe was provided for, Miss Martin’s prep- 
arations were completed for the final journey. But she did 
not look for it yet. Not till the summer should be gone and 
the frosts come again, and the withered leaves begin to whirl 
past the window. How the end would come she knew no!. 
It might be that a dreadful agony would slowly wrench her 
life away, or that some sharp pang would cleave like a knife 
through her bosom, severing soul and body at one quick 
blow. Or, in the silence of midnight, when Phoebe lay 
sleeping b}" her side, it might come like a hand of iron, 
crushing her heart with exquisite torture. Perhaps at sun- 
set, when the last beautiful rays were lingering on her face, 
it would come like a rolling wave, benumbing eveiy nerve, 
and bearing her off on an ic}’ current. Or, like some pure, 
ethereal fluid, sweeter than nectar, more gentle than the 
zephyr, and more delicious than the sunlight, drowning'- every 
sense with rapture, charming her body to sleep, and wafting 
her spirit above the stars. Peibaps like a rising mist, dis- 
closing friends, and kindred, and myriads of departed ones, 
revisiting the -scenes of their earthly life in forms invisible 
to mortal eyes ; but, come when or how it might, it would be 
an exchange of earth for heaven. Thus mused the invalid, 
reclining in her easy-chair, and looking forth upon the glories 
of the fading day. Dan had gone, and Phoebe was watching 
his retreating figure from the window. It was one of those 
delightful balmy afternoons such as June alone can bring. 
The leaves danced in a soft south wind that hardly provoked 
a ripple on the Wei)awaug, so bright and sparkling down the 
rocky slopes, so blue and lazy through the level sward. J'he 
woods were full of songsters, seeking their evening repast 
and filling the air with music. Back and forth across th • 
fields coursed the blithe swallows, in wanton frolic, whii-e 
])ands of dusky swifts hunted up and down the rivei-, now 
skimming close to the water, now darting high above tla; 
trees. Over the meadows the broad shadow of the Cedars 
crept slowly, dying their green carpet a deeper tint, darken- 
ing the silvery siuface of the stream, and absorbing the sun- 
light that yet tinged the tree-tops. Far down the riveix 
Piioebe could see the gilt star upon the church-vane, glowing 
like a lamp before it vanished with the last red rays. The 
luwing of imi)atient cattle ceased at the pasture gates. One 


128 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


by one the little songsters hushed their carols, and went to 
sleep. Away to their nests sped the merry swallow^s ; and 
the dnsk}^ swifts, returning from the hunt, wheeled, a 
moment, above the house-tops, fluttered close over the 
chimneys, then tumbled to their snug homes. Dan liad 
long been out of sight, but Phoebe still sat by the window 
watching the growing beauty of the stars, and thinking of 
the terrible lilies, — thinking of her mother, and of the com- 
ing hour when her beloved aunt w^ould join her, — of the 
time, after many long blissful 3’ears, when she and Dan 
must go to meet them, — perhaps where that beautiful star 
glistened so bright in the west ; where the sun alwa3’S shone 
and the birds never ceased their songs ; wJiere the3’' would 
rove together through boundless fields of daisies and blue- 
violets, and where Deacon Biggot could never come. Not 
where streets w'ere paved with gold. Far better she liked 
the shad3^ lanes, with the tin3^ eyebright peeping from the 
velvet moss, and the perfumes of sweetbrier and honey- 
suckle. Not where angels play on golden hai ps ; but where 
she could always hear the mirthful notes of the bobolinks, 
and the clear, sweet whistle of the quail. A holy silence 
crowned that lovel3^ Sabbath evening, disturbed onl3’ by the 
sudden sw’oop of a whippoorwill, and the regular, deep- 
toned booming of the frogs. There was a soothing charm 
in the sleepy air, and Plioebe, yielding to its subtle influence, 
sank into a quiet slumber. But in her sleep there came a 
vision. She saw her aunt, standing in the meadow, clothed 
in dazzling white, and blooming with a wonderful, immortal 
l)eaut3", while round her closed an awful shadow, impenetra- 
ble to voice or eye — a formless phantom of unspeakable 
horror, ali-powerful and inexorable. Only a moment she 
saw her looking back with unutterable love. Her throbbing 
heart stood still. Awakened then, by sudden terror, she 
lurned with a piteous cry and cast herself upon a lifeless 
form. Alas for Phoebe ! The last of the roses had faded for- 
ever on Aunty’s loving cheek, and the last snow-white lily 
rested there. To her final rest the invalid had gone, as to her 
nightly repose. While she sat musing, looking forward to 
golden October, awaiting the rustle of falling leaves, and the 
flocking of birds for their flight, even then the inflexible 
messenger stood, invisible, by her side. Through the dying 


PETER GRID! A' AND lIlS SNIIL 

twilight, with the hist kiss of the south wind, in the sacred 
stillness of the Snbbath, unlooked for and unknown, death 
had come, and, at his gentle summons. Aunty had passed 
away as quietly as the sunbeams she loved so w^ell. Alas 
for Phoebe ! How vain her cries ! How unheeded her fond 
caresses ! Starting with wild hope, she turned her eyes to 
wdiere the fire-flies were sparkling over the meadow, and then 
sank down so desolate, pressing her warm lips to the motion- 
less forehead, and raining despairing tears upon the silent 
face that la}^ so calm, so pure, and now so terrible. 


CHAPTER XII. 

PETER GRIDLY AND HIS SNIB. 

Peter Gridly was a propert 3 ’-owner. Up to the time of 
his acquaintance with Mr. Babbon he had led a nomadic 
life, wandering about without fixed abode or definite purpose, 
except to dwell as long as possible wherever he could estab- 
lish himself in comfort. In the art of swindling he w^as an 
adept. The credit of his success, however, he never claimed 
for himself, but secretly ascribed to a certain m3’steriou3 
patron whom he was wont to mention by the familiar names 
of Old Jeriy and Jerry D. He would walk into a hotel, 
carrying a carpet-bag stuffed to corpulence with paper, and 
ballasted to a degree suggestive of bullion. Nor would he 
neglect to make particular inquirv about the security of 
the safe. As he followed the porter up-stairs, it was no un- 
usual thing for the clerk to remark to some of those standing 
near, that there went an old codger who travelled on his 
metal, — one of the solid men, with “ plent 3 " of rocks.” He 
could tell those old nabobs at a glance. Nothing flashy 
about them ; but, when you came right down for the cash, 
they were there, every time. 

Certainly there was nothing flashy about Gridly. On the 
contraiy, he w^as shabby. But that never prevented him 
from travelling into comfortable quarters, on his hypothetical 
metal. While the porter lingers in the hall, signifying 
the value of his services by labored breathing, Mr. Gridly 


130 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


makes careful inspection of the door- fastenings, cheering the 
servant, meanwhile, with the indefinite promise that it will 
be all right. He then locks the door, and the hopeful, though 
disappointed, menial shuffles himself down-stairs, l)y eas}' 
stages, affirming at every landing that he is “ blest ” if he 
“didn’t hear it chink.” An inferior artist would have been 
less obtrusive, and never have complained of the fare ; w'ould 
have tolerated the last degree of impudence from w'aiters, 
been exceedingly courteous to the landlord, and kept his 
distance from the clerk. But Gridly was more skilful. He 
bustled around, grumbling about the table and berating the 
servants. He embraced eveiy opportunity of contradicting 
the landlord, and so frequently told the clerk to “ shut up” 
that that dainty individual learned not to open, when he saw 
the solid man within earshot, or, if already open, to close 
instantly. When he perceived the porter growing sulk}’, he 
lost no time in engaging him for various trifling services, at 
a liberal salary, to be paid at the end of the month. Small 
sums were expended in postage-stamps, wdiich he affixed to 
letters addressed to himself. These he called for at the office 
every day ; and, not seldom, he took from them what ap- 
peared to be checks and drafts, and deposited them in a 
plethoric pocketbook, with an air that left an impression of 
cubical solidity on the mind of the observant clerk. Some- 
times he would rush to the telegraph-office, and despatch an 
order to a fictitious agent to buy ten thousand or to sell twenty 
thousand. Discovering suspicion on the landlord’s face, he 
would deposit in the safe several sealed packages marked in a 
solid, business hand, “ U. S. bonds, $5,000, $3,000, $9,000.” 
But, eventually, unmistakable evidence would be presented 
that Gridly had travelled on his imaginary metal as far as 
possible in that particular direction. Then he would dis- 
appear without notice, leaving those rich-looking packages in 
the safe, leaving his corpulent valise heavy with supposititious 
metal in his room, and leaving the astonished clerk to dis- 
cover that when he came right down for the cash his late 
solid guest was not there. While the landlord was 
estimating his loss, and the porter telling his mates how much 
he was blessed if the “old beat with the chink” hadn’t 
“dished” him, after all, Mr. Gridly would be wending his 
way to some other hotel, remarking to himself, “ That’s tol- 


PETER GRID LY Am) ///.S' SNIB. 


131 


lol, I guess; score another for Jerry D. !” In boarding- 
houses, also, Gridly’s tactics were no less successful. An 
expressman would arrive with a strong box which was to be 
put under his bed, and the landlady, observing that it was 
quite heavy with something that clinked like specie, would 
congratulate herself that there was “nothing of the fly- 
away look” about Mr. Gridly ; that there was a man who 
would not defraud a widow. Evidently the new' boarder w'as 
familiar wdth the stock-exchange, and the landladj' w'ondered 
whether he w'as a bachelor. He manifested a livel}' interest 
in the arrival of ICuropean steamers, and w'ould sometimes 
remark that when the Persia, or the Asia, should arrive he 
would turn a very prett}' penny ; and, at such times, the 
landlad}' thought Mr. Gridly “ not a very bad catch, after 
all ; b}’ no means a bad-looking man, if he only had a wife 
to keep him neat.” At the first sign of impatience on her 
part, a bank-book would appear on Gridly’s table, containing 
large amounts to his credit ; and, for a while, it would have a 
soothing effect. But the time always came at last when she 
requested to see him in the parlor, and then he would ask if 
he could serve her in the way of real estate, — remarking 
that he was largely interested in that species of property, 
and had facilities for assisting friends in the matter of rents. 
With many thanks the landlady would insinuate, as delicately 
as possible, that he could give her material aid in the way of 
currency, and, thenceforth, Mr. Gridly would be seen no more 
at that frugal board. He would be in quest of some other 
confiding wddow, of grass or of clay, quoting, as he went, 
from his tutelary Jerry D., “ Them that eats free, wins ; and 
them that don’t, loses,” — leaving his fellow- boarders to 
wonder wdiether the pretty penny had not proved too heav}' 
to turn, and the enraged widows to weep over a box of 
stones. 

But, now that Mr. Gridly was a property-owner, he was 
less of a nomad. His real estate consisted of a house in the 
immediate vicinity of the Clover-Leaf, of which it w’as in ap- 
pearance a twill brother. It had been built by the earnings 
of a hard-working mechanic and the savings of bis prudent 
wife, and there the mechanic had lived, in unreasoning con- 
tentment, until neighboring gin dealers claimed him for a 
subject. Then all content, all comfort, and hope itself, last 


132 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


of all, abandoned that home. In an evil hour Gridly ob- 
tained a mortgage on the house of the once industrious 
mechanic. Gridly’s few dollars passed into the gin shops, a 
few more gallons stretched the drunkard stiff in his bed, and 
famine stalked in at his door. Officers came and moved 
the mechanic out to the’Potter’s Field. Other officers moved 
his starving family into the street, and sent for others to 
move them to the Almshouse. But, before these last arrived, 
death held out his pitying hand ; and so they had to carry 
the mechanic’s wife out to her husband in tlie Potter’s Field, 
while Gridly moved into their house. It was a hard case, 
he admitted, “ but then, as Old Jerry says, charity begins at 
home.” 

Tlui structure was shabby and filthy, but so was the new 
proprietor. Not a single pleasant or attractive .feature did 
it possess. In fact, it ranked about as low in the scale of 
architecture as Gridly did in the scale of humanity, being no 
more like a respectable dwelling than he was like a decent 
man ; and, as if with some vague idea that he was more of 
a wild beast than a human being, he always spoke of his 
home as the Den. But Gridly had another property. Not 
real estate, nor strictly to be classed as personal property, 
though more nearly akin to that than to anything else. It 
was a possession, liowever, upon which he set no value, — 
one which had been steadily depi'eciating, under his manage- 
ment, until he had come to look upon it as a heavy encum- 
brance, and to believe that he would be the richer for its loss. 
This nondescript cliattel was Mr. Giidly’s wife, and also 
his slave, to that extent where he could have a slave. But, 
though legally married, he never called her wife. That 
would have violated the eternal fitness of things ; the word 
did not at all define the relation she sustained to him. For 
a while he had pursued the beaten track of hoary custom and 
named her “ the old woman” ; but that phrase had been found 
too long, and far too common for so extraordinary a man as 
Gridly. There was, however, a certain monosyllable which 
he often invested with vicarious duties of noun and verb, as 
occasion required. As some make use of “ thingumbob ” and 
other kindred expressions, so Gridly’s originality had appro- 
priated to itself the word “ Snib.” And this'term, indefi- 
nite as the indefinite article itself, was a very happy one to 


PETER GRIDLY AND HIS SNIB. 


133 


express the undefinable relation that Mrs. Gridly bore to her 
lord and master. Only long subjection to Gridly could have 
produced so jaded and abject a creature. Her patience 
would have shamed the man of Uz. Had she fallen on a 
happier lot she would have been well formed and comely. 
But the constant pressure of Gridly’s brutality had worn lier 
down to less than ninety pounds, and her last trace of comeli- 
ness had long since departed. She was miserably thin. But 
leanness was a blessing, seeing that the lighter she was the 
easier she could be felled, that being a pastime in which 
Gridly not unfrequently indulged. Premature old age had 
folded many wrinkles around her eyes as well as all over her fore- 
head, and had apparently converted her upper lip into fluted 
parchment. But wherever the skin was smooth it resembled 
mahogany veneering, while the abrasions inflicted by Gridly’s 
fist gave to her face the appearance of some old, damaged 
specimen of barbaric Art. Her e3^es were unnaturally large, 
with an habitual alertness, as of some timid animal hunted 
hard and often. A shiftiness in excuses, together with 
hesitating speech and spasmodic hands, betrayed the constant 
fear inspired by her husband. Her lack of modern feminine 
accomplishments was indeed praiseworthy. Of the lost arts, 
however, she kept one relic, named a “ sampler,” — a twelvc- 
inch square of canvas, adorned with ancient letters and 
unique designs in silk needlework, — a memento of her child- 
hood , preserved through vicissitudes of a tempestuous life ; faded 
and stained as with an antiquity almost Chaldean ; displaying 
in mute irony the motto, “ Sweet Home!'* But in the 
manly art of self-defence she was no neoph3'te. Long, 
arduous practice had rendered her an expert, as was mani- 
fest from the dexterity with which she dodged and parried 
tlie cuffs and blows aimed by Gridly. Frequently, when her 
elbows rose with a quick, alternate movement, and flexed at 
an -acute angle, her arms had no little resemblance to the 
walking-beam of a small steamboat under full headway. And 
as she never knew at what moment to expect an attack, she 
would instinctively parry at any sudden gesture of her hus- 
band’s. Besides her leanness. Providence had vouchsafed 
one other blessing, and that was the absence of young 
Gridlys. On that branch of the genealogical tree appeared 
no youthful bud, giving promise of future Gridlys. No in- 


134 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


fant had ever sported in the Den since the infant mechanics 
were moved out, nor could Gridly discover ground of hope 
that he would ever see one sporting there. This circum- 
stance had been the occasion of man}’ indignities to the 
Snib. Before she had been so thoroughly broken down, she 
used to resent accusations of delinquencj’ with commendable 
spirit; and once, ambiguoush' perhaps, but very pointedly, 
siie suggested that Mr. Gridly “ had better look to home.” 
Further than that she did not elucidate, for Gridly closed the 
discussion by felling her forthwith. He had studied alma- 
nacs without number, had feasted and fasted himself and his 
Snib, had smuggled boastful nostrums into her coffee; and 
for a while the artful Snib, availing herself of his credulity, 
had fared sumptuously. But Gridly divined her selfisli 
motives, at last, and felled her so effectuallv that she was 
never afterwards heard to make the remotest allusions to 
luxuries. But sometimes he was away from home, collect- 
ing evidence against Carman, Spelter, & Co., or spreading 
snares for Mr. Babbon, and these absences were oases in the 
desert of the Snib’s life. Then the abrasions on her face 
were newly veneered, she rested from her customary vigi- 
lance, and escaped for a few hours from the Den. At the 
time of her first appearance in this narrative one such oasis 
had just been traversed. Gridl}- had returned from a jour- 
ney to tile West, and, at sight of him, the Snib once more 
plunged into the sandy waste and the simoom. True to 
woman’s nature she rushed to meet him at the door, exclaim- 
ing, ‘‘ Oh how glad I am you’ve come ! ” 

“ So be I,” he replied, dropping into a chair; “ but I’m 
dev’lish tired. Pull off my boots ! ” 

The Snib immediately applied herself to the task with rm 
aptness that bespoke long practice, stopping but once to 
parry, as Gridly lifted his hand to his hat. 

“ It seems so long since you went,” she remarked; and, 
having uttered that dutiful falsehood, she tugged with all her 
might. 

“Look here, now! thaPs all gammon,” returned Gridlv. 
“But why don’t you pullV 

Mrs. Gridly thought she was pulling, and anybody would 
-have justified her in the opinion, seeing that !ier bodv was 
bent like a quadrant. Gridly leaned back in his chair. 


PE TEE GRIDLY AND II IS SNIB. 


135 


e^'ing lier suspiciously. Doubts of her fidelity were rank- 
ling in his heart. “ If I thought you had,” said he, “ there 
wouldn’t be any Snib round here much longer. Pull, d — n 
you ; pull! ” 

By a sudden effort the quadrant was curved into a parab- 
ola, removing Gridly’s boot and prostrating his Snib. 
Rather gratified by her success she seemed than discon- 
certed by the fall. Like an agile acrobat she bounded up, 
and, applying herself to the other boot, wrested another 
similar smile from Fortune. 

“ If I thought you had,” repeated Gridly, “ there’d be a 
funeral here to-morrow ! ” 

One last ember of resentment flickered up, a moment, in 
the heart of the feeble-minded Snib. “Now, Peter,” she ex- 
postulated, “it’s actually wicked to talk so. You know I 
haven’t. How can 3’ou saj^ it? I’m sure von wouldn’t 
think of such a thing if you onl}’’ knew how lonesome it’s 
been ever since jmu went, and how I longed to see 3’ou back 
agai n.” 

“Oh, 3ms,” returned Gridl3', “if I knew it! But, 3mu 
see, I don’t know it ; nor I don’t believe it, either. But I 
don’t sa3^ you have been snibbing round. I onl3^ thought if 
you had I’d have to buy a coffin.” 

Gridlv evident^- found amusement in the idea of purchas- 
ing a coffin, for he hissed himself crimson, and twin globules, 
hanging beneath his chin, oscillated like little pendulums, 
measuring some brief residue of time allotted to the Snib. 
He then drew from his pocket a bundle of papers and sprea{l 
them on the table. These documents wm’o not unlike 
those that Mr. Babbon was always handling at his desk, 
and which his vvife regarded as the Scriptures of Mammon. 
Some were printed, others in manuscript ; some entitled 
Babbon & Gridly us*. Carman, Spelter, & Co. ; others.. Gridlv 
& Babbon vs. Carman, Spelter, & Co. ; others still, newer 
and fresher-looking, Gridly v^. Babbon. These last were 
cvidetttly a source of deep satisfaction, for he hissed him- 
self almost purple-, while he pawed them over with man3" 
exultant apostrophes to his old patron, Jerry D. Upon. a 
low chair, holding his wet boots to the fire, sat the Snib, 
buried in peaceful reverie ; vaguely wondering how she 
would look in a coffin ; conjuring up phantom caskets, and 


13G 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


trying to form an opinion as to what variety she would 
prefer. 

I’m scal3S am I?” growled Gridly, thinking of Mr. Bab- 
bon, and hissing abominablj'. I’m low-lived, and unfit to 
keep compaii}'^ with gentlemen, ain’t 1 ? We’d see about that. 
We’ll find out yet who is the small- tailed mouse, and who’s 
the long-tailed rat. I wonder how long he thinks I’m going 
to pull in the traces and play watch-dog for him. Oh, yes ; 
a nice cat’s-paw is Gridly, to rake out the chestnuts for him! 
Not much. He’ll find out some day I ain’t no goose for his 
fox. I rather guess he will. It strikes me it’s been Mr. 
Babbon and Old Gridly* about long enough. It’s time the 
tune vvas changed to Mr. Gridly and Old Babbon. We’ll see 
how Mr. Gridly can ride, when it comes Ms turn to mount 
the high horse.” 

“ — Would it be a cherry one ? ” meekly inquired the absent- 
minded Snib. “I think I’d like a cherry one, with a silver 
plate and silver handles. Some of the neighbors might come 
in.” 

Gridly glared at her a moment, then cried : 

“ Look here, 3’ou Snib, you shut up and keep still, when 
I’m bus3" with my legal motters, or I’ll go out and bu3^ it 
now ! ” Then he resumed : 

“ We’ll fix the old sinner, me and Jerr3’ D. He’s snaky" ; 
but it won’t do. Some fine day he’ll find out thei-e’s a snakier 
one than him.” 

“ I think ” remarked the forgetful Snib, “ a cherry one 
would be becoming. One with a silver plate and silver handles, 
and a neat pine box to put it in, so it wouldn’t get scratched 
by the gravel. I saw a lovely one in Grand street, and it 
looked like a beautiful fit ; only" it was a rosewood one, and 
rosewood wouldn’t do. I know I’d look out of place in a 
rosewood one.” 

“Come, now, will you quit?” roared Gridly, making a 
a pass at her head. The Snib parried deftly-, but vainly-, for 
Gridly, feinting with his right, delivered his left upon the 
narrow sloi)e of her forehead. 

“Take that one!” he snarled. “ Now you see what you 
get by putting me out with gabble, when I’m busy with my 
legal motters. Here be I, racking and sweating my brain, 
and here y-ou set, putting me out with gabble. What be y"ou 


ASHES TO ASHES. 


137 


good for, an^’way? I don’t mind a woman gabbling, when 
she’s got a young one in her cradle to gabble at. "But I’d 
like to know where your young one is, to gabble at. Say, 
3’ou Snib, where’s your young one?” 

The Snib found it utterly impossible to reply. 

“ I don’t see it anywhere,” continued Gridly, “ though 
I’ve been keeping mighty sharp lookout a good many years. 
I don’t hear it, though I’ve been listening for it quite a spell. 
When I do see it, then you may gabble and cackle. I don’t 
see no use for snibs like you, anyhow. What be you good 
for? Sa}’, you Snib ! What the d 1 be you good for?” 

The torpid Snib, roused a moment, strove to think what 
she was good for, but could think of nothing except a “ cherry 
one,” with silver handles and a silver plate. To her numb 
brain it seemed that she was ready, and would do very well, 
for that. 

“ With m3" black alpaca on,” she mumbled, as in a dream3" 
stipulation with Fate, “and not any tuberoses; — I look 
taller in m3" other dress, but tuberoses make me faint ; — 
ayid my hair done very plain.'' 

“Now, here! Take care how 3"ou put me out!” cried 
Gridly, and, with that, he turned back to his papers, while 
the humble Snib, to whom had never 3'et occurred the ques- 
tion what he was good for, dried his boots before the fire 
and held her peace. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ASHES TO ASHES. 

After the morning devotions, Mrs. Babbon’s first duty was 
to feed her chickens. These were her especial pets, but, next 
to Gridly, her husband’s chief bane. In wet weather they 
congregated on the piazza, roosted in the carriage, and 
perched in the summer-house, leaving many unpleasant 
vestiges in that favorite resort of Mr. Babbon’s. No outlaws 
could be more reckless. In a twinkling they would burrow under 
the garden fence, to glut themselves on newly-planted seeds. 
They" trampled the flowers, uprooted the peas, and played 
havoc with the corn. On sultry days they were to bo seen, 


138 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


with dishevelled plumage, and utterh^ regardless of missiles, 
delving, boring, and furiously flapping, wherever the earth 
was soft, stirring up clouds of dust and wallowing with con- 
vulsive delight. Not a flower-bed on the premises but v\as 
drilled and countersunk by them, from end to end. Some 
infirm or disabled one was alwa3’s basking before the range, 
rolled up like a mummy, sedulously fomented and heroicall^y 
dosed. Whenever a fatal accident befell the gallant master 
of the flock, the widowed hens were soon provided with 
another consort. Nobody could feed them but Mrs. Babbon, 
and twice a da}' she equipped herself, cap-a-j)/e’, with hood, 
rubbers, meal-pan, and whip, and summoned her brood. 
Not one of them but knew her voice, and at her shrill call 
they would come running and flying in converging lines from 
every direction. Nobody could be better versed in the pathol- 
ogy and therapeutics of their maladies than Mrs. Babbon. 
She could compound infallible remedies, and knew the period 
of incubation to an hour. Nobody’s hens could bring out of 
a baker’s dozen of eggs more numerous, or more vigorous, 
or prettier chicks, than hers ; or take better care of them 
after they had been brought out. At the period of which 
this chapter treats, one of those interesting events was near 
at hand. Mrs. Babbon’s dearest hen was about to be in- 
vested with the cares of maternity, and for several days 
that circumstance had been exercising its legitimate influence 
on the worthy lady’s nervous system. The day preceding 
the important event was Sunday. Of course Mrs. Babbon 
went to church ; but, during the services, she w'as in a state 
of unusual disquietude ; and Deacon Biggot, whose observa- 
tion nothing escaped, believed that she was mourning over 
her husband’s continued indifference under the droppings of 
the sanctuary. Not easy was it for the preacher, on that 
occasion, to enlist her attention, and impossible it was for 
him to retain it. She heard the text, “As a hen gatheretii 
her chickens under her wings,” and, forthwitli, her thoughts 
fled away from the house of God to one corner of the barn, 
where stood a barj'el, stuffed with hay and crowned with that 
well-beloved fowl. In her excited imagination rioted 
visions of gaunt rats, blood-thirsty weasels, and predatory 
cats. How she contrived to wear away the tedious liours of 
that day and the ensuing night, must remain an enigma ; but 


ASHES TO ASHES. 


139 


it is certain that eleven o’clock, Monday morning, found her 
returning from the barn in calm beatitude. Mr. Babbon, 
who was resting in the summer-house, after a tour of inspec- 
tion in his garden, saw her approaching with a transfigured 
countenance, and by that token knew that hen and chickens 
were doing as well as could be expected, in spite of his 
allies, the rats, the weasels, and the predatory cats. 

“ Perfect beauties ! ” Mrs. Babbon rapturous!}" exclaimed ; 
“ and not a mishap among them all ! ” 

“ I declare ! How lucky ! ” returned her husband, with an 
enthusiasm too suddenly developed, and too excessive, to be 
genuine. 

“ Mr. Babbon ! ” she replied, in a tone of severe rebuke ; 
“ can’t you, — I won’t say for my sake, but for the sake of 
3 "Our own, poor, perishing soul, — can’t you svij providential^ 
Not a sparroiv falleth to the ground without His notice. 
Why that heathenish word lucky in John Babbon’s mouth, 
rolling like a sweet morsel under his tongue? Suppose I 
trusted my affairs to luck, do you know where those innocent 
little, fledglings would be? Food for the beasts of the earth 
and fowls of the air ! Yes, a prey to the ravens of the — ” 

“ Of the valley ! ” declared Mr. Babbon, with sympathetic 
fervor ; or devoured by the heartless eagles of the moun- 
tain top ! I’ve alwa 3 ’s said your remarkable success with 
poultry was due to skilful management, and not to luck. 
Providence may have had a finger in the pie, now and then ; 
but, as for luck, I don’t believe in it at all. How many of 
the little beauties have we? ” 

“I have thirteen,” replied Mrs. Babbon; “and I should 
like to see a place in your garden where your pagan luck has 
done as well.” 

At mention of the garden Mr. Babbon discovered an oppor- 
tunity for ambush, and embraced it with ardor. “ My dear,” 
said he, “ the peas are all up.” 

Mrs. Babbon was sure that the peas had not been planted 
more than forty-eight hours. “Mr. Babbon, you know 
better,” she exclaimed ; “ they are not.” 

“ I said they are,” rejoined her husband, with an emphasis 
of finality. 

“ Yes, 1 heard you,” she replied ; “ but I don’t, nor I can’t, 
nor I won’^, believe any sun that ever shone can bring up 
marrowfat peas in two days.” 


140 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ No, ray clear,” said Mr. Babbon, with aggravating suavity, 
“ the sun could not, but 3’our chickens brought them up, in 
five minutes.” With a sudden burst of choler, he added : 

“Dumb, good-for-nothing creatures! I won’t stand it; 
ril wring their necks, — every one of them.” 

Mrs. Babbon made a determined effort to retain her self- 
control. 

“ That would be a truly valiant exploit,” she returned. 
“ It would be too noble. How illustrious Mr. John Babbon 
would look coursing a poor, feeble, panting fowl round and 
round his premises, burning with ambition to wring its little 
neck! Not to mention my feelings, for they are of no con- 
sequence, but what an entertaining spectacle for our neigh- 
bours ! What an object of envy I should be to every wife 
w’hose husband had never been seen chasing a chicken ! And 
what an equal contest ! Not John Babbon versus Carman, 
Spelter, & Co., but John Babbon versus a chicken.” 

The touching scene that she liad conjured up wrought 
powerfully on Mrs, Babbon. 

“ You know,” she continued, “ there is a neck 3"ou may 
wring, as there is a heart you have ever wrung ; but, as for my 
fowls, I say you shall not harm a feather of them, — not a 
single feather.” 

“‘Perched and sat,’” Mr. Babbon irrelevant!}” quoted, 
with a rueful glance at his coat-skirt, “ and something more.'’ 

Evidently a crisis was impending. Mrs. Babbon never 
“vow'ed,” but, in great emergencies, she “ vummed,” that 
seeming less profane and more euphonious. 

“I vum to Heaven!” she cried, “my trials are greater 
than I can bear.” 

But at this moment the churcli-bell began to toll, and her 
tempestuous heart was instantly quieted. The bell reminded 
her of the approaching funeral of Phoebe’s aunt, and, for her, 
funerals possessed a soothing power. She loved to visit 
houses of mourning, and from the contemplation of such sad 
scenes she drew morbid, but pro(ound, comfort. Hardly the 
minister himself was more certain to attend the last riles 
than Mrs. Babbon. At the first stroke of the bell the 
threatened paroxysm was averted, and she began chanting, — 

“Oft as the bell, with solemn toll, 

Speaks the departure of a soul.” 


ASHES TO ASHES. 


141 


Mr. Babbon was very grateful to the bell-ringer. 

“ Certaiuly, my clear,” he hurriedly and vaguely replied. 
“ By all means ; of course ; and quite right, too, I should 
say, under the circumstances. It was always one of ray 
favorite iiynins. I used to whistle it when I was a boy.” 

Keeping a reproachful gaze riveted on her husband, Mrs. 
Babbon cadenced again in a thrilling tone, — 

“ Speaks the departure of a soul.” 

Mr. Babbon was already in doubt whether he owed the 
sexton any gratitude, after all. 

“ Of the soul, Mr. Babbon, of the soul,** his wife repeated, 
in her most impressive voice. 

“ Unquestionably, my dear,” he hastily interposed. “ I’ve 
often thought so.” 

“ What kind of a soul? ” inquired Mrs. Babbon. 

“ To be sure ! ” Mr. Babbon straightwaj" concurred. “ That’s 
just what I want to know, — what kind of a soul?” 

“ Is there an3'thing mortal about it?” pursued the catechist. 

“ Mortal, indeed ! ” echoed Mr. Babbon, in scornful 
denial. “I should rather think not. Why, that’s an error 
so plain that the seafaring man, though a fool, need not err 
therein.” 

“The wayfaring man, I suppose 3^ou mean?” said Mrs. 
Babbon. “I think I would tr3'’ to be a little more correct 
in my quotations.” 

“ I meant exactly what I said,” Mr. Babbon replied, with 
counterfeit positiveness. “ If you will go and look up the 
passage, now. I’ll venture to say you’ll find I’m right.” 

“ And I know 3’ou are wrong,” the worthy lad3^ firmly 
returned. “ But you won’t be convinced till 3^011 see it with 
3’our own e3’es. Yes, it’s the departure of a never-neyer- 
dying soul, Mr. Babbon.” 

“My dear,” Mr. Babbon impatiently rejoined, “ I think 
you had better take your departure into the house. I’ve got 
something else to consider. If 3'ou are going to adopt that 
orphan, I should suppose you would have enough on hand to 
fill up all 3"our time, to-day.” 

“ Whatever I may have on hand,” the worth3' lady replied, 
“ 3mu will see that it won’t be neglected, — neither jot nor 


142 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


tittle of it. You never find any dilly-dallying about my un- 
dertakings, any more than I perceive the propriety of your 
ordering me into the house.” 

“ Why, my dear!” expostulated Mr. Babbon, “ I didn’t 
mean to have you think — ” 

1 know it,” quickly interposed his dear. “ Wives have 
no right to think, I believe, under our boasted civilization, 
however it may be among pagans and cannibals. 1 wonder 
if the next step will be to set that idiot over me, in my own 
house. Abraham had his Hagar ; wh}’ shouldn’t John Bab- 
bon have his?” 

“■ For the best of reasons,” declared the adroit husband. 
“ I should hope I am not capable of showing such disrespect 
to my wife. Do 3’ou imagine 1 could ever imitate that bar- 
barian Jew? Don’t you say one word! I say he teas a 
nasU' scamp. Setting up a beggar over his own wife ! He 
ought to have been — well, I know what ought to have 
been done to him. Don’t ever hold up Abraham as an 
example to me ! If 3’^ou want a pattern for me, I tell you 
this much, 3’ou’ve got to find one that had more regard for 
his wife,” 

Whereby, the rising agitation of those excitable nerves 
was wonderful 13^ calmed. 

“1 don’t make any excuses for the patriarch,” replied 
Mrs. Babbon, in a greatl3^ mollified tone, “ but I do believe 
he had a poor, weak-minded simpleton for a wife. How- 
ever, we should not carp at the faults of Scripture personages, 
but imitate their virtues. And I’m glad to see you’ve got 
the theor3' correct, if you do sometimes slip on the practice.” 

Thereupon the worthy lady left the field, to pass the rest 
of the day in bus3’’ activity. Hagar and her Ishmael could 
have held undisturbed possession of the house, for nothing 
could distract Mrs. Babbon’s thoughts from the approaching 
funeral. Phoebe’s mourning must be procured and made up. 
It was necessary to notify the minister, and to secure the 
pall-bearers. The cat must be taken away from the house. 
Nobody knew what the cat would do, if left there, and but 
little was ever said upon the subject ; but it was one of the 
unwritten laws of iron custom, stronger than an3’ statute, 
that the ent must be kept away. Watchers, also, must be 
engaged, to see that no alien cat effected nn* entrance down 


ASHES TO ASHES. 


143 


the chimney. Somebody must take care that the house was 
set in order, that extra chairs were brought into the little 
bleak parlor, and that everything was ready for inspection. 
In sliort, a great m my things were to be done, that nobody 
could superintend so well as Mrs. Bal)bon, or with so much 
[)ropriet3', seeing that she was hereafter to have sole charge 
of Phoebe. 

In Mr. Babbon’s calendar that was a bright day. He had 
respite from being chafed and rasped. He hurled innumer- 
able stones at the burrowing hens, with the gratifying result 
of disabling more than one, and studied to thwart Gridl3'’s 
schemes, without once incurring the reproach of bowing at 
Mammon’s shrine. 

The next day friends and neighbors arrived singly", or in 
couples, at the cottage by the Cedars, and made their way 
silentl}' into the lower rooms, or gathered in solemn grou[)3 
on the steps and in the 3'ard. Old people with withered 
faces and trembling limbs were there, to witness the cere- 
mony that ere long must be performed for them. But the 
larger number were in the prime of life, with crape on their 
hats and mourning dresses, showing that their homes had 
not been left un visited by death. There were not a few 
children, gazing on the scene in subdued terror, searching 
up into the sober faces around them, wondering at the 
silence, and shrinking back with instinctive dread as they 
were led up to view that marble sleeper. Nor was Deacon 
Biggot absent. Almost no one saw him enter, so low was 
he bent under his burden of humility, and so unobtrusive 
was his demeanor ; but his presence was made known to 
Phoebe by a frightful, though scarcely audible, gasping. He 
stood veiy near her, gently biting the air, swaying and 
tottering, while he leaned upon a chair, as if to prevent his 
metaphorical pack from settling him into the floor. No 
word issued from his mouth, thougii his valvular cheeks 
kept playing with a rapid, tremulous movement, and his 
eyes were gibbous with superabundant sanctit}". At sight 
whereof, Pheebe shuddered visibly, and more than one old 
woman, looking compassionately upon her, mumbled to her- 
self : — 

Poor little creatur’ ! How afeard she is of good 
Deacon Biggot ! ” 


144 


A YOU NO DISCIPLE. 


Hardly the sleeper herself was more silent than those who 
stood, by turns, at her side, some glancing at the rigid face 
and passing on with wet eyelids, while others, storing iij) 
food for gossip, made careful survey of the coffin and tlie 
habiliments of the dead, and noted the inscription on the 
plate. The next day these last could be heard declaring 
that there was a mistake of at least two years in the age. 

“ Why, good land o’ mercy ! ” they would exclaim, “ didn’t 
she go to school with my eldest sister, and hadn’t I ought to 
know? ” 

“ Not a smitch” did the3^ care for famil}’ records, and the\^ 
“ guessed” they knew how it was. Or the^’ could be seen, 
stretching far out of bed-room windows, fashioning speaking- 
trumpets with their hands, and sending messages across to 
opposite bed-rooms, where kindred spirits were chafing their 
stomachs against their own window-sills and making ear- 
trumpets of their hands. But in the presence of the dead 
these were as still as an3^ Phoebe sat buried in grief, tak- 
ing no note of anything, until the minister pronounced the 
words, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” and a low gasp of 
approval drew her eyes once more to the deacon. That 
good man was now bent like a cripple, under Ins invisible 
pack. His face was haggard with solemnity, and his eyes 
were dislocated with holiness, until their pupils were almost 
eclipsed. Had he been exerting his utmost skill to inspire 
the desolate orphan with loathing and horror, he could not 
have been more successful. But Mrs. Babbon, feasting her 
enraptured e3ms on the spectacle, sought her husband’s face 
to launch a glance of reproachful comparison at him. No 
sooner did she find the object of her search, however, than 
her rapture died. Mr. Babbon’s gaze was fixed on vacancy. 
It was plain that his thoughts were of Gridl3", and that the 
canker-worm was feeding on his heart. 

“I vum to — to mercy!” exclaimed the afflicted wife, 
below her breath, “if he isn’t bowing to Mammon in the 
very presence of death ! ” 

But at this juncture the minister began his pra3"er, and 
Mrs. Babbon succeeded in letting herself down gradually 
from her painful tension, b3^ one silent petition after another 
in behalf of Mammon’s unconscious devotee. 

After the prayer came the undertaker, swift and noiseless 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


145 


as a shadow, with grief enough on his countenance for all 
the woes of humanit}^, and then the light of that glorious 
sun that she had loved so much was forever shut out from the 
face of the dead. The pall-bearers carried the coffin to the 
hearse, and the procession moved towards the burying- 
ground with slow, silent steps, while the solemn passing-beh 
tolled the minutes with measured stroke. Like a dreadful 
dream it all seemed to Phoebe, until the long black file coiled 
itself into a circle around a heap of fresh earth, and amidst 
the sound of rattling gravel and falling stones the deacon 
bleated, in tones that cleaved her heart, — 

“ A-shes to ashes, and d-ust to dust ! ” 

Then, as if waking suddenly to find that no more tender 
words, no more fond kisses, and no more loving smiles, were 
left for her, she clung to her adoptive mother, crying, convul- 
sively, — 

“Oh, let me love yott, now ! You were kind to my aunty.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 

Some hours after the Brand had fallen, in one corner of 
the bar-room, he awoke to find himself lying on a lounge, 
with Mr. Flinteye standing near. He sat up, looked around 
the room, and, pressing one hand to his forehead, ex- 
claimed : — 

“ How it spins ! — a sign my luck has changed.” 

P'astening his eyes on his new friend, he continued, 

“Not but wot you might burn me yet, but how gay you 
could uv done it when I wos meller ! ” 

“ Why burn?” Mr. Pdinteye briefly asked. 

“I don’t know,” returned the Brand; “ p’r’aps just for 
fun. Pve offen been burnt for fun. Wosn’t it so with you, 
when .you wos small? You look just like 3^ou wos flint}’- 
ht arted, wdien you wos .young. I bet 3’ou struck out on the 
pious track, an’ somebody h’isted 3'ou off. If you do want 
to burn me, crack away ! Pm used to it.” 

“Here! You stopl” exclaimed the other. “You’re 


146 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


trenching onto the impudent. Is Mr. Flinteye the person to 
burn a boy ? Methink not. Still, you might stir him up to 
the burning point, and, was I to hazard my opinion, I should 
say you’d better branch out onto some other main.” 

“ Then, if 1 wos you,” said the Brand, “ I’d get a reg’lar 
aboard, the quickest I knowed how. Your fins are pla3dng 
like a drummer. O Lordy ! how they 63" ! ” 

“ And, if I was you,” replied the other, “ I wouldn’t 
sioear. If you think to please Mr. Flinteye b3^ that sort of 
music, 3’ou’re on the wrong tack.” 

It’s the first time I ever did,” replied the Brand ; “ but 
I’ve sometimes thought I had ought to begun long ago. 
Here’s how it’s awluz been with me, — I set out to be a 
good little feller. I went to church reg’lar, never played 
hookey, nor lied, nor stole. P’r’aps 3"ou’ve read about 
Bozarro an’ his band, — how they fit like brave men, long 
an’ well. Just so I stuck to all them wa3^s, long an’ well. 
But ’twosn’t no use. Why wosn’t it? Cos that old saint 
kep’ tripping of me up.” 

“ He roughed it on you, I should sa3%” remarked Mr. 
Flinteye ; “ but go on ! ” 

“ He wos great on burning little coves,” pursued the 
Brand, “ an’ stunting of ’em out o’ their growth, an’ wearing 
of ’em out ; he couldn’t be beat at it.” 

“ Well, but why don’t you sa3' who he was? ” inquired Mr, 
Flinte3’e. 

“ Cos I won’t,” replied the Brand. 

Whereupon Mr. Flinteye came it persuasively with one 
eye, and confidentially with the other, and the Brand cried, 
'‘'•Mighty ga3% but no use. I shan’t tell.” 

“That’s right,” said Mr. Flinteye; “and it does you 
credit. If 3mu have your small secrets, why, Mr. Flinte3"e 
is not the person to pry into ’em. He has his own little 
history what won’t stand too much prodding. If the Old 
Gentleman ever grazes too close onto any private depart- 
ment, 3’ou may block him off without ceremon3’.” 

“ Wol,” resumed the Brand, “ he begin to call me names, 
— Child o’ Satan, Firebrand, an’ such-like sweet ones. But I 
got used to it, an’ then he begin to say they wos a pack o’ 
wolves a-yowling arter me. Some nights I thought I heard 
’em, an’ if I wosn’t scared I wouldn’t say so. Then he told 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


147 


me the devil wos a-pulling for me, like a roaring liond. Wol, 
I didn’t see no liond, nor I didn’t b’lieve they wos one. I 
said if there wos any, I’d just let him puli an’ roar. I 
knowed no liond wouldn’t touch a little mis’rable cove like 
me. Only just one smell he would took, an’ off he’d scooted 
the swiftest he could. Then, for another thing, he fired 
prayers a,t me. He’d get up in the Sabber-school, or in 
meeting, an’ groan about flinty hearts, worms of the dust, 
an’ such things, an’ everybody could see he meant me, cos he 
aimed straight at me. I’d ruther had him stone me, any day. 
Now, I knowed I wosn’t built for a worm, an’ lie couldn’t 
make me kink up, not if lie’d burnt me for a year. But he 
made me feel so awful mean I couldn’t look anybody in the 
face. I awluz wanted to sneak it out the way, just like 
Purp. He wos terrible mean, Purp wos, but I got so I could 
beat him at it. I wos just like a old boot in the street. 
Don’t you know how everybody ’ll give it a kick, when they 
come along? They can’t help it, cos it looks so like it ought 
to be kicked. I’ve offen thought I’d let one alone, but, first 
I knowed. I’d find myself back there, a-h’isting of it. Now, 
I w'os just like that old boot, an’ everybody used to h’ist me 
out the way. Wot kind o’ style do 3'ou think that is to make 
a little feller good, — to keep batting an’ burning of him, an’ 
making of him mean, h’isting of him out the way, an’ telling 
of him he’s steering for the gallers as tight as he can go ; to 
call him a child 0’ Satan, an’ tell him he can’t be good, no 
how, cos it’s 7? ye to one he ain’t never been elected? There 
wosn’t but one as ever loved me any. But she wos a blessed 
angel, — I’ve got a sure thing on that. She said prayers for 
me, an’ she’d say ’em yet, if she didn’t b’lieve me a goner. 
But I told her ’twouldn’t be no use, an’ it wosn’t. Once I 
seen a book where a little trainer wos got upga^', with a blue 
coat an’ a red knobber on his cap. He had a snare drum, 
an’ the wa}' he wos rattling of it up couldn’t be beat. His 
mouth wos open awful wide, an’ he wos singing, ‘ Now, here 
am I, a little drummer.’ Wol, just so me, — here I lie, a 
little bummer. Say, Mr. Flinteye, if you wanted to see 
whether you could womit, would you try it?” 

“ I should say,” replied Mr. Flinteye, “ it would be a 
branch-out from the main. But, if I wanted to find out very 
bad, methink I would try.” 


148 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Having succeeded well at the first attempt, the Brand re- 
marked, “ There, I knowed I could, — I’d uv bet on it.” 

“ Bubber,” returned Mr. Flinteye, “I wouldn’t have bet 
against you, I don’t think. But that’s a branch-out. You 
was saying here you was, a little bummer ; that’s where 3’ou 
stra3’ed out from.” 

“ Wol,” resumed the Brand, “ I know I’ve got to be one. 
It’s the only thing left. I expect I’ll grow up just like 3'ou, 
— with my lanterns red an’ rumm}', an’ my fins coming the 
saw-mill game. I don’t go in for half-way work, anyhow. 
Wot a gorgeous pair we’d make ! ’twould beat the Big an* the 
Little Dipper.” 

“They’re a constellation,” said the other, as he brought 
out his tobacco-box, “ what has to move mighty careful 
across Mr. Flinteye’s orbit. He can’t tolyurate a dipper-in.” 

“I never tasted it,” mused the Brand, gazing at the 
tobacco. “ Now, who knows but there’s been m}^ mustake?” 

“ It is called a bad habit,” said Mr. Flinteye. 

“ But it might bring luck,” urged the Brand ; “an’ luck is 
something I never had any of, 3’’et. I expect I’ve got to 
change everything I ever b’lieved.” 

“ Very wearing and tearing is it said to be on the consti- 
tution,” continued the other. “ I heard of a man that died, 
the other da3", from that habit ; and, Bubber, he was a hun- 
dred and twenty years old. But, if 3''ou want to begin, Mr. 
Flinteye is not the one to hold 3-ou back.” 

With that the Old Bummer handed over the box, and the 
Brand took out a small portion. 

“ And now,” said Mr. Flinteye, “ methink the Old Gentle- 
man will go strike his reg’lars.” 

Whereupon Mr. Flinteye disappeared, and the Brand, 
stuflfing the tobacco into his mouth, sat lost in thought. 

“Now, it’s sing’lar,” said the latter to himself, “he 
didn’t burn me when I wos meller, though he had me fair. 
P’r’aps he ain’t never read about smitin’ Philistynes, an’ so he 
never took it into his head he’d ought to smite all such ones 
as wos weak. I like Mr. Flinteye, I do. P’r’aps he had it 
rough, too, when he wos small. He looks shif less, like me, 
an’ he gets the trembles, like I do when I’m cold an’ hungry. 
I bet he didn’t want to turn out ruined. But he couldn’t help 
it, ’cos somebody kep’ h’isting him off the track when he wos 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


149 


young. Ten to one there ain’t nobody to care how soon he 
goes off the hooks. Say, now, ain’t that me, too? only he’s 
older an’ his lanterns are rummy, an’ he’s up to every game, 
an’ can take nip arter nip an’ never be meller. If Purp was 
onl3" here to match we two, wot a team ’twould be. That 
clog never ought to died till he seen Mr. Flinteye.** 

Jackedo’s soliloquy was cut short by Mr. Flinte3^e, who re- 
turned with a bundle of new, warm clothes, which he spread 
out on the lounge, saying, “ There ! run j^our eye over 
them.*" 

The Brand obeyed, with demonstrations of delight. His 
glance roved rapidly over the garments, he slid his fingers 
along the polished buttons, and sounded the pockets. Mr. 
Flinteye made no remark, but a good-natured smile on his 
flaming features betokened the pleasure with which he wit- 
nessed the other’s admiration. 

“ It’s the nobbiest rig I ever seen !” exclaimed the Brand. 

Well then, hop into it ! ” said Mr. Flinteye. 

The Brand stared. 

“ Be them mine? ” he asked. 

To which the other replied, — 

“ Booms the answer, Methink they be.” 

The Brand leaped up in great excitement. 

“ If you mean it,” he cried, “just give the word, an’ see 
how swift I shuck myself! ” 

‘‘Shuck away!” said Mr. Flinteye, and, with one furious 
shake, the Brand was stripped. Observing his benefactor’s 
glance wandering over his spider-legs and emaciated trunk, 
a faint flush of shame appeared on the boy’s Vvan cheek. 
Apologetically, he said : — 

“ I wouldn’t be so terrible thin an’ poor, only I ain’t been 
fed up lately. P’r’aps I’ll get fat, now m3' luck has changed.” 

No sooner was he attired in his new outfit than he rolled 
his cast-off clothes into a ball and laid them aside. 

“Good-bye! duds,” said he. “Many’s the time we’ve 
sunned it, an’ frosted it, an’ sneaked it out the wa3^ together. 
Long an’ well you’ve stuck by me. But 3'ou’re gone duds, 
now. You wos wery good for a child o’Satan, but you ain’t 
the tools for a little bummer.” After a moment, he added : — 

“ Mr. Flinte3’e, I call it a sing’lar thing, you take such a 
shine to me. How do I know but you’re baiting of me on?” 


150 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Mr. Flinteye took the boy by the arm, and set him down. 

“I wosn’t going to mizzle with ’em,” protested the 
Brand. “ Where’ ve I got to mizzle to, I’d like to know?” 

“Now 3’ou set there, on that there longe ! ” said Mr. 
Flinteye. “ I’m going to talk. What do you. suppose Mr. 
Flinte^^e picked you out the mud for?” 

“ I give it up,” replied the Brand. “ It rigs me yet.” 

“I believe I told you,” resumed Mr. Flinte^^e, “ the Old 
Gentleman seen a pondyurous lay a-looming on your frontier. 
Do he still see it? Toots the answer, methink he do. He’s 
on it himself, and what he wants is some one with him. He 
wants a ’prentice; and now for the main question, which is, 
do you wish to go on it with the Old Gentleman, and will 
you be his ’prentice? Incase you do, he promises he’ll never 
prod 3’ou on past history. If ever he trenches too close on 
private preserves, all you have to do is block him off, and he 
won’t run that there blockade. Now, what do jmu say to 
that enormous lay?” 

Tiie Brand was impressed l)y the other’s earnestness. 

“ I wish’t I knowed wot la}' it wos,” he warily returned. 

“ Mostly by night,” explained Mr. Flinteye. 

“ All right,” replied the Brand ; “ that’s me.” 

“Very still and secret, Bubber.” 

“Gayer yet!” exclaimed the Brand, with increasing 
interest. 

“A chilly lay sometimes,” pursued the other; and the 
Brand cried, “ I’m used to it. Chilly ! I bet you !” 

“ And a dreadful dangerous one it is,” continued Mr. 
Flinteye. “ If you was catched on it, you’d find a bullet 
tucked into you,; but, then, you never do get catched, you 
see.” 

“ I’d risk it,” declared the Brand, “ if I wos with you.” 

“ Likeways be it uncommon startling to a timid nerve,” 
added Mr. Flinteye. “ I don’t think I’d ever advise a cow- 
ard to begin.” 

“Wot is it; why don’t you tell?” demanded the Brand, 
who was fast being brought up to a fever heat. 

“ Well, then,” said Mr. Flinteye, “ it’s a lay with a spade 
and a bag. If frosty, add a pick I ” 

“ On me dig!’* cried the Brand. “ Do they grow deep?” 

“ Yes, deepish ; on the whole, consid’rable deepish.” 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTTCE. 


ir>i 


“Wot color be the}^? ” 

“ Their color varies, Bubber. Some is white, some black, 
and some 3’eller. One more p’int I’ll give 3"ou to make it 
eas3', — the3’ have wooden shells.” 

“Oh, dear ! I can’t tumble to ’em at all,” said the Brand. 
“ I give it up. Wot do 3’ou call ’em, an3'wa3'? ” 

“ Likewa3’s do the3" var3' in names,” replied Mr. Flinte3^e. 
“ Some call ’em cads ; I call ’etn plants.” 

“ They’ve got ga3^ names, anyhow,” remarked the Brand. 

“ Never 3*ou mind about names ! ” returned Mr. Flinte3'e. 
“Don’t branch out, but stand to 3’^our main, which is, do 
3’ou go on it or not? Do you dwell in this here noble Clover- 
Leaf, ’mid peace and plenty ; or do you go out to want and 
ruin? Do I count you in or not? Chimes the query, 
Which?” 

“ I wish’t I knowed wot a ’prentice loo.'?,” said the Brand. 

“ Now, a ’prentice is 'a helper,” explained Mr. Flinte3"e. 
“ He carries the spade and bag, — if frosty, add a pick ! He 
likeways carries a rope, which he helps lift ’em out with.” 

“I’m a-tumbling,” cried the Brand. “ The3'’re something 
heavy. ” 

“There’s another thing 3’ou’re doing,” said Mr. Flinteye, 
“ though it has no place among the duties of a ’prentice, — 
3'ou’re dipping in. I was going to say he never sees any- 
thing, nor hears anything, nor knows an3dhing, only for his 
boss. He makes himself useful. In short, he’s a little 
factotum.” 

Do he have to tote ’em far?” inquired the Brand. 

“ What you have to do,” the other severely replied, “ is 
to struggle against one setting and Resetting weakness. 
Your danger lies in dipping in. I wasn’t through. I was 
going on to say, never does he hook anything. He’s always 
on the square. He isn’t to be pumped by nobody, and he 
keeps both eyes out for cops. Other duties he learns after- 
wards.” 

“Mr. Flinteye,” inquired the Brand, “do he ever 
womit?” 

“ Sometimes, on the start,” replied Mr. Flinte3’e. “But 
w'hen he’s broke in, I should say very seldom.” 

“ Do he have square meals?” 

“ Yes, Bubber, he do, — square and solid.” 


152 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“That’s all right,” said the Brand.’^ “ Now, wot he the 
duties of the boss, — anything but striking of his reg’lars? ” 

“Never mind about that! ” said Mr. Flinteye. “You’ll 
find out, though, he knows how to do the fair thing by his 
’j)rentice. Now, what do you say ? ” 

“ If you mean it,” returned the Brand, “ I say yes. It’s 
iny luck, an’ I’ll let it run. It can’t be no rougher ahead 
than wot it wos behind. I b’lieve in 3’ou, an’ I don’t care 
wot it is, — I’ll stick to you like tar. You may count me 
in. Now, if I wos you. I’d hang out some plants for a sign, 
an’ a big red eye over the door, a-coming of it at them 
plants.” 

“ Wait till 3^ou see a plant, Bubber, and you’ll disgorge 
that there notion,” said Mr. Flinteye. “ Now take pop- 
corn.” 

“ All right,” interposed the willing Brand. “ Set it out!” 

Mr. Flinteye maintained a petulant silence, until the other 
was fully imbued with a sense of guilt. Then he said : — 

“ If you’re through dipping. I’ll go on. I was merril}" 
going to say, if we was in the pop-corn business, we’d hang 
out some ; and so of other things. What we’d hang out 
would vary as the business varied. But plants, Bubber, is 
different. There ain’t but one sort of customer for plants.” 

“Do they eat ’em?” inquired the Brand, his curiosity 
growing with the mystery which the other threw around the 
subject. 

“Well, no, I should say not,” returned Mr. Flinteye. 
“ Not in this country the^^ don’t, though I’ve heard tell about 
eating of ’em in wild and uncultyuvated parts of the globe. 
Once I heard a sailorman telling about the king o’ the 
Mokes. He’d been shipwrecked on their coast, and carried 
captyve to Old Moke himself. He said he was the ungod- 
liest old blackguard ever he seen, and more than nasty. 
And, Bubber, that sailorman himself wasn’t by no means 
what you would call godly; nor he wasn’t spotless clean, 
neither. But that’s a branch-out. To return to the main : 
the}^ carried him in and set him down in a post-hole, up to 
his armpits, plumb in front o’ that bloody Bogy. And thei-e 
he sweated so he feared he’d drown, seeing them woolly 
savages bringing plants for Old King Moke to feed on. 
They fetched ’em in roasted, and br’iled, and baked, — some 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


153 


on ’em done brown, and some het up just enough to take off 
the chill. And then the little ones ; they was handed in raw, 
like oysters on the half shell. By his tell, you ought to seen 
that old Moke feed. Them plants just dived into him, and 
it seemed like he’d never get full, — he had a appetite like a 
graveyard. His teeth was longer than corn-cobs and black 
as whalebone. Fat! Lard was lean to him. His head 
stuck up out his neck like a acorn out its pod.” 

“ I bet you a catechism would took the fat off him !” 
exclaimed the excited Brand. “ But wasn’t he bigger than 
a giant?” 

“Was I to hazard my opinion,” said Mr. Flinteye, 
“methink he was. Why, Bubber, fora lapdog he had a 
full-grown rhinoceros. Judge of his size by that! Well, 
there the sun was pelting down onto him, and there he sat, 
simmering like a teapot ; meanwhile, mind you, he kept both 
eyes out for more plants. That sailorman, he seen no end 
o’ Mokes’ heads sticking out the ground, like black bogs, and 
other Mokes waltzing round, paring of ’em off. He said all 
they done was just to lighten, with their e3"es, when the 
knife walked through their necks.” 

“ I expect they knowed it wosn’t no use to sing out,” 
remarked the Brand; — “it was their luck.” 

“Well, well, Bubber,” resumed Mr. Flinteye, “other 
Mokes was going down on their marrybones afore the old 
king, and crawling round him on their bellies. They kept 
their noses close to the ground, and clawed in the sand, like 
they was groping for the dead-line. But ’twas hard to find 
that dead-line, ’cause it had been drawed crooked to start 
with, and covered with sand, besides. Whenever any of ’em 
worked their way too near Old Moke, or wiggled too far 
away, his little lapdog would hop down off his knee and 
gobble ’em up. Then he’d laugh., would that old tyrant, 
like the devil’s own brother. ‘ Jiee-haw! hee-haw!' he went, 
worse than a jackass, and louder than thunder. ’Twould 
I'roze 3’our blood to hear him. But them poor creatures 
didn’t mind it much. ’Twas their religion, you see, and he 
w’as their God. Whatever he done was right, and whatever 
the}' done was wrong. Every time that little lapdog lit on 
one, the rest believed ’twas a judgment on him. They 
thought it served him right, ’cause ’twas his business to toe 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


154 

the mark exactly, no matter whether he could find it or not ; 
and they all tried their best to liee-liaio like their boss. They 
had their small theology as well as other folks, and that 
dreadful jackass-tune was their sacred music. Now that 
there unhappy marineer couldn’t look behind him, on account 
o’ being set so tight into the hole, but he said he heard the 
plants sizzling and popping on the fire. P’obably, when 
the}^ got het, they’d swell up and burst open. However, 
not to branch out. King Moke had a coui)le of big gold 
hoops in his ears, and behind him stood two black-a-moors, 
bracing one foot agin his back and holding onto them hoops. 
You see, he was so ungodly fat his mouth sunk ’way down 
into his neck, and them two black brutes sngged back on 
the hoops to lift it up, so he could feed. That’s what the 
hoops were for.” 

“ O tnighty Gum ! ” ejaculated the astonished Brand. 

“ Likeways did they sag,” added Mr. Flinteye, “ when he 
was striking of his reg’lars.” 

“1 wonder whether he could come it with his lanterns?” 
remarked the Brand. 

“No, I should say not,” replied Mr. Flinteye ; “ for, you 
see, his eyelids hung down like two smoked hams.” 

“ Gum and taff}* ! I don’t b’lieve it ! ” exclaimed the Brand. 
“ You said he kep’ both eyes out for more plants. Now, 
how could he, with two big hams a-bearing down on ’em? 
That’s wot I want to know.” 

For a few moments Mr. Flinteye seemed lost in thought. 
Then he absently remarked, — 

“ They’re a mixture I never tried. Gum and taffy — ” 

“ I thought you was trying of ’em on wie, right straight 
along,” interposed the Brand. But Mr. Flinteye paid no 
heed. 

“Gum and taffy,” he resumed, “might do it, after all. 
But they ought to be well mixed and spread on leather. 
Prehaps such a plaster, if well warmed and stuck on tight, 
might manage to close up the mouth of a dipper. Now, all 
I’ve got to say is, don’t set up your little watery opinion 
against a man as has sailed the high seas. Y’'ou’ve never 
seen the Moke in his native clime, and there’s many a thing 
in this world your little pasty brain don’t know about. Just 
bear in mind them Mokes is a very darksome people. Now, 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


155 


to return once more to the main trunk, that truth-loving 
sailorman, he said it wasn’t long afore the Mokes begun 
setting down on what few bogs was left sticking up, and one 
little cripple come and squatted on his head ; and there he 
roosted.” 

He was lucky his topknot wosn’t pared off,” declared the 
Brand. ‘‘ But, if I’d been him, I’d set my tushes into that 
little nig. I’d took a piece out of him ; that’s wot I’d done.” 

“ Now, 3’ou don’t know what 3’ou would done,” said the Old 
Bummer ; “ so, keep still ! Meanwhile, the bloody king, with 
frequent soaking down his reg’lars, was verging along 
to’ards the groggy department. Now, that sailorman, he had 
a double-bass jewsharp about him, what ho used to get out 
for’ard with, and harp to the seabirds about his Marv Ann.” 

“Just like little Dabid.” cried the delighted Brand. 
“ Once I seen a book with little Dabid in it, harping awa3' 
afore King Sauld. I don’t know whether he was harping 
about his Mary Ann^ or not, but the way he was tuning of 
it up couldn’t be beat. I expect he kep’ up that terrible, 

‘ tick-tee., tum-tee., tick-tee., tumrtee.,* until Sauld couldn’t stand 
it no longe'r, — until it drived him w^ery near craz3\ He up 
with a spear an’ let fl3' at little Dabid. Wol, Dabid didn’t 
want no more of that medsun. The best thing for him 
was to scoot ; an’ that’s just wot he done.” 

“There, there, that’ll do!” Mr. Flinte3’e pettishly ex- 
claimed. “ It might been his IMary Ann, or his Maiy 
Jane, or his Jane Mary^ for he hnd a repletion of ’em on his 
list ; but it’s foreign to tlie present branch. David w^as a 
character in his day, but let him rest. That poor sailorman 
said how, thinking of his Mary Ann, when he Wi\s sunk in 
that hole, with a wild Moke setting on his bead, like to broke 
him down. So, he struck up ‘Pop ! goes the weasel.’ He 
couldn’t put in his best touches, on account o’ that little 
babboon’s heels beating time on his chaps, but he rattled 
it off the most brilliant he could under the circumstances. 
Bubber, that happened to be just the right chord. First he 
knowed, the Mokes were a-dancing. What sort of capers 
they cut, I ain’t going to tell, — ’t would p’isou'y^our ears. 
But this much I’ll say, of all the nasty dances ever invented 
'them black apes had found out the most unmityugated. 
Meanwhile, mind y^ou, the old king kept putting down the 


A YO UNG DISOIPLE. 


l.>G 

stimulant, and, likeways, did he keep waxing groggier. 
That sailor-musician he noticed sperrited music was the 
thing to tickle the savage heart. So, he veered round onto 
the ‘King o’ the Cannibal Islands.’ There’s where he had 
’em foul. In less than no time every mother’s son of ’em 
was hopping, except Old King Moke himself and them two 
as was sweating on the hoops. And that sailormaii said he 
kept reeling it off, the sweetest he could, till the last one o’ 
them tobacco-signs got so pla3’ed out he couldn’t budge 
another peg, and dropped like a ten-pin. Then he just 
hung up his harp, crawled out that hole, and made a gesture 
to’ards Old Moke, which, was I to hazard my opinion, it 
wasn’t by no means respectful to a monarch, and awa}' he 
went.” 

“ I bet he made the leather fly ! ” cried the Brand. “ But 
didn’t them two on the hoops put arter him?” 

“ No, Bubber,” returned Mr. Flinteye. “Old Moke was 
drunk, and they dared not let go. If they had, his nose 
would got mired in his neck, and his breathing department 
would been closed forever. He’d been smothered in no 
time.” 

“ If I’d been that sailor,” said the Brand, “I’d wanned 
that little cripple afore I started. I would chucked him 
head first down that post-hole. But I expect he didn’t have 
no time to lose. Just like the song says — 

‘ Pull for the shore, sailor, 

Pull for the shore ! 

Heed not the rolling wave, 

But pull for the shore !’ 

I don’t b’lieve that story. It’s too gay to be true.” 

“ Now, Bubber,” returned the other, “ old as Mr. Flinteye 
is he wouldn’t set up his opinion against a sailorman, — 
not on any Moke question he wouldn’t. They’re a dreadful 
obscure people.” 

“ I bet I’ll see that bloody king all night,” said the Brand, 
“ with them hams flopping, every time he blinks. P’r’aps he 
could fan himself with ’em, like a elephant with his ears. 
You didn’t say whether he cracked the plant slndls with his 
tushes. Wot be they, anyhow? Ain’t 3’ou got none to 
show me ? ” 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 157 , 

“ Come with me,” Mr. Flinteye replied, and led the way to 
the bar-room. 

‘‘ Now drink that,” said he, pouring out some liqnor for 
his companion, and a glass half full for himself. 

The Brand complied with much coughing and strangling ; 
and, as he recovered, he said in a determined tone, “ I’m in 
for it. It’s my luck.” 

“Now you can stand more eatables,” resumed Mr. Flinl- 
e^^e. “ You are coming round all right.” 

Thereupon, he brought from the back room some bread and 
meat, with a bowl of milk, which he placed before the boy, 
who swallowed them as fast as he could. As the Brand de- 
voured the food his e^es filled with tears of gratitude. The 
Old Bummer’s kindness was fast winning his confidence. 
Nothing like it had he ever experienced. He wiped away 
his tears and said : — 

. “ Mr. Flinteye, you are might}^ good to me. If you let 
me be your ’prentice I’ll stick like tar, an’ do anything you 
say. I’d even steal for 3mu, an’ it’s a thing I never done in 
all my life, nor ever would, for my own self.” 

“ ’Twill be tough at first,” said Mr. Flinteye, “ but you’ll 
get used to it. Now come ! ” 

With that he led the way through the back room down a 
second flight of stairs. But the Brand stood still, on the 
upper landing, when the other had reached the bottom. 

“ What you waiting for?” demanded Mr. Flinteye. 

Habitual mistrust, born of the manifold deception he had 
experienced, for a moment got the better of the Brand’s 
recent resolution. 

“You might be baiting of me on,” he objected. 

“ Now, there's a sweet disposition ! ” said Mr. Flinteye. 
“There’s thanks for you ! A boy I’ve treated like my own 
sou ! ” 

Stung by the reproach, the Brand made his way down, 
and groped along behind his guide to where a brick ‘wall, 
built across one corner of the cellar, formed a small trian- 
gular room. 

“ Now, don’t be scared, nor tumble down,” said Mr. Flint- 
eye. “ You wmn’t be hurt. Another thing, — no loud talk ! ” 

He unlocked the door of the cell, and, taking his appren- 
tice by the arm, led him in. 


158 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“There, Bubber,” said he, placing the boy’s hand upon 
some ol>ject hidden by the darkness, — “there is what Mr. 
Flinte3'e calls a plant.” 

A faint smell of some deodorizing chemical pervaded the 
place. The Brand held fast to his companion. Though the 
fumes of the liquor were fast rising to his brain, he shivered 
with instinctive terror. 

“ What’s that noiseV^ inquired the other. 

“ Only my tushes,” faintly replied the Brand. “ Fm got 
the trembles 

Mr. Flinteye lighted a lantern. Upon a long, narrow 
table lay an object enclosed in an India-rubber sack. No 
sooner did the Brand perceive its outlines than his face 
grew white. 

“Wooden shells!” he gasped, his features settling into 
a stoii}' look of deepest awe. 

“ Come, don’t weaken,” said Mr. Flinteye. “If you are 
plucky, now’s the time to show it. Don’t back down like 
a coward ! Here, pull away on the bottle I ” 

The Brand grasped the flask and drank desperately. 

“ I’ve never swoonded,” he muttered ; “ but I bet I’m cav- 
ing in.” 

“No you ain’t, anything of the kind,” the other roughly 
answered, at the same time supporting his companion by the 
arm. “ It’s only your luck changing, — that’s all the matter 
with you. Here, face the music I ” 

With that, Mr. Flinteye lifted the boy, and set him down 
on the sack. The Brand made no resistance ; but his fore- 
head was covered with crystal beads, and, hy the lantern’s 
dim light, the pupils of his e^’es looked like discs of black 
velvet under polished glass. 

“There you be,” said Mr. Flinteye, “ as bold and brave 
a little fellow as ever I see. It won’t hurt you. It ain’t 
p’ison, nor it can’t bite.” 

“ Don’t you bet I’m going off the hooks?” faltered the 
Brand, in a scarcely audible voice. 

“ No, I never bet to lose,” replied Mr. Flinte3"e. “ You 
are showing how much 3^011 can stand for the person as treats 
you fair. Likeways be you warming up a trifle to the stimu- 
lant, methink. You are getting your color again. That 
sap is flowing to your noddle, Bubber.” 


THE BRAND AN APPRENTICE. 


lo 9 

The Brand folded his hands and gazed steadily down. 
His eyes lost their wild expression; his face began to flush. 

“A plant!” he sighed. “I’ve tumbled at last. Hoio 
Ji rrrid / ” 

But frigiit seemed giving way to fascination. After a 
moment he continued, “ My head is going round and round. 
Now, I call it a sing’lar- thing to be setting on a plant, grow- 
ing meller. I bet you he’d a plaguey sight ruther be growing 
meller on my stummik. Do you bet he knows wot’s going 
on in this here Clower-Leaf? Maybe he do. Maybe he 
sees a little cove setting on him. P’r’aps if he could talk 
he’d sa}", ‘ All right. Little Bummer I 1 don’t care.’ Or, 
arter I’m gone off the hooks my own self, maybe my little 
goaty sould will be toddling along somewhere, when, first 
I know, his sould will hop out from behind some tree an’ 
sing out, ‘Look here, sould, I want to see you a minute!’ 
Then I’d la^’ low an’ sneak it ’along, playing I didn’t 
hear him ; an’, if he put arter me, I bet you my sould would 
make it dreadful dustu on that road. Which would you bet 
on, Mr. Flinteye? Wouldn’t you back the Little Bummer?” 

“That I would,” declared Mr. Flinteye, “to my last 
red.” 

“ Think of the king o’ the Mokes, an’ thein black plants ! ” 
exclaimed .the Brand ; “an’ a sailorman, up to his neck in 
a post-hole, harping about his Mary Ann ; an’ that lapdog 
didn’t chase him neither. Wot a liar that sailor wos ! ” 

“Now, we wont branch out onto the sailor question,” said 
Mr. Flinteye. “ We’ll get up-stairs afore that stimulant 
rolls you over. Methiuk ’twas a trifle too heavy.” 

Thereupon, Mr. Flinteye lifted the Brand from his seat, 
and set him down outside the cell. He then put out the 
light, locked the door, and led the way to the bar-room. 

“ Round an’ round it goes,” stammered the Brand, as he 
sank upon a chair. “ But, if .you say the word, I’ll drink till 
it spins like a mill-stone. Only, I wish’t I could lay dowm.” 

Mr. Flinteye came it, cheerily, with alternate e3^es, then 
took his young apprentice by the arm and helped him to an 
apartment up-stairs. 

Here’s 3^our room,” said he, “ and here.3’ou’ll live like 
a 3’oung fighting-cock. You’re in luck, at last. Mr. Flint- 
eye, himself, will look out for you.” 


IGO 


A VOUX(} DISCIPLE. 


The Brand curled himself up on the lounge. 

“A terrible tough trade,” he muttered; “but it’s my 
luck, an’ he’s good to me.” 

A few more incoherent words, and he lay still, overcome 
with stupor. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A NEW HOME. 

Over the front yard of Phoebe’s new home a great elm 
spread its leafy expanse, — itself a teeming world of 
mystery, in whose engendering depths countless germs of 
animal life awoke to activity at the touch of the all-quicken- 
ing sunbeams. In the fissures of its rugged bark, tribes of 
ants had their dwellings, and could be seen travelling, all 
day long, up and down the highwa}^ of the trunk. Cater- 
pillars, hanging from the branches by glistening silken 
threads, swung idly in the air, offering a tempting bait to 
their feathered foes. Millions of other tiny creatures also 
made their home in the tree, a single leaf supplying food and 
shelter to generations. It was a tavorite haunt of birds. 
There the little songsters were wont to meet, in merry 
antics, and emulate each other’s lnelod3^ There, too', the 
domestic robins reared their 3’oung, seeking protection in 
the heart of the village, where fierce hawks seldom ven- 
tured ; and, on the ends of the most supple boughs, the 
gorgeous hanging-birds loved to knit fast their light gray, 
downy nests. Always swaying, with the faintest breeze, no 
scli()ol-bo3^ aim could strike them with arrow or stone, nor 
could the most daring climber trust himself within reach. 
In the sultry noontide of waning summer, the old elm 
resounded with the hoarse crescendo of locusts, and in the 
cool September starlight, bickering kat3^dids maintained 
their incessant dispute amidst the foliage. With many sweet 
blending voices, it sighed and murmured to the caress of the 
south wind, and it roared loud defiance to furious November 
blasts, — always musical, whether welcoming the zephyr or 
defying the storm, — ever beautiful, whether dancing and 


A NEW HOME. 


161 


fluttering throughout its myriad leaves, or lashing the air 
with its thousand arras. 

It was Phcebe’s delight to sit at her window, under the 
mighty dome, watching its busy population and listening to 
its music. Beyond the sloping lawn in front she could see 
the Wepawang, bright as polished silver, pouring over the 
dam into a bed of snowy foam, then idling down to the lower 
pond. Eveiy night when the lights were out, and sweet fancies 
were weaving their silent charm, she heard the unvarying 
monotone of the waterfall, and the whispering tree, chanting 
their drowsy serenade. 

Not unwisely had Miss Martin chosen for her niece. The 
fretful, but excellent, mistress of the household was goodness 
and kindness itself to Phoebe, whom she expected to train 
into a valiant champion for the church militant, against the 
forces of Mammon. True, her tongue would sometimes dis- 
charge stinging sparks, but that was simply the natural con- 
sequence of a highly charged battery and a good conductor. 
The sympathies of the new recruit, however, were likely to 
lead her over to the camp of the enemy. By Mr. Babbon 
she was invariably called daughter, and the name grew dear 
to her. Not a little was she distressed to see him searching 
his papers, day after day, with a weary face, often standing 
at the window in moody thought, often pacing the floor and 
repeating, in a low voice, — 

“ And 3'our orators will ever pray ; and your orators will 
ever pray.” 

Very different was her life here from that in the little cot- 
tage by the Cedars, and, now that her aunt was gone, she 
would not have returned thither if she could. Eveiy da}’ 
she and Dan w’ere together, and that was happiness. She 
loved to hear him scan the ^neid, and to watch him while 
he turned the leaves of his lexicon. He described the ship- 
wreck, the horrible harpies, and the inexorable ferrj^man, 
with frequent mention of Stygian waves, of umbras, 

and of gloomy Erebus. He told her the story of Dido, and 
at the final scene, where the deserted queen looks from her 
funeral pile upon the ship that is bearing off her perfidious 
lover, Phoebe’s eyes were full of tears. 

“How cruel!” she cried. “Dan, I know 3^011 would 
never have done that, if you had been jEneas and I Dido.” 


162 


A YOUNQ disctplf:. 


He described the journey to Hades, and savage Cerberus 
guarding the gate ; and Phoebe exclaimed : — 

“ Dan ! he was worse than Bevor. But, then, iEneas was 
a man, and had a spear or a sword. You had only your 
hands for Bevor. I don’t believe he was any braver than 
you, and he wasn’t half so good'’ 

He described the boyhood of Cyrus at the Persian court, 
the march against Bal)yloii, the great battle of Cunaxa, and 
the long, perilous retreat ; and Phoebe said : — 

“ Dan, I think you would have been a good deal like Cy- 
rus, if you had lived at the Persian court.” 

Sometimes he would call her to look over his shoulder while 
he drew a diagram on his slate. Pointing with his pencil, 
he would say, “ Now, the angle ABC equals the angle A C 
B. You see how that is, don’t you, Phoebe?” 

“ Yes, I believe I do,” she replies. “ Because they’re just 
as large as each other.” 

“ Yes; but how do 3"ou know the^^’re exactly as large as 
each other?” he asks. 

“ Because you say so,” she innocently' answers. 

“ Yes,” he laughingly' replies ; ‘‘ but the mathematical rea- 
son is by the third proposition. Now, look sharp ! but the 
angle A C'B equals the angle C B D by the fifth proposition. 
You see that, don’t you? ” 

• Phoebe hesitates. 

“Nevermind the fifth proposition,” he continues ; “but 
you see they’re equal ; y^ou see they’re both of a size, don’t 
you?” 

“Oh! y'es, I believe I do,” she answers. “They look 
about as large as each other.” 

“ Well, then,” he concludes, “ things that are equal to the 
same thing are equal to each other. Therefore the angle A 
B C is equal to the angle C B D. ‘ Quod erat demonstran- 
dum ' You see it now, don’t you, Phoebe?” 

Whereupon Phoebe frankly declares, “ No, Dan, I don’t 
quite see how it is, but I know it's so, if you say so." 

How short those evenings ! With ?■ “ good-night ” to Dan 
and a kiss to the others, Phoebe goes off up the front stairs 
to her own room. To herself she whispers, — 

“I couldn’t love him more if he were truly my brother. 
Think, if he should ever be like cruel -^neas ! But 1 know he 


A liEW HOME. 


163 


wouldn’t. It isn’t like him ; he couldn’t be so cruel ; ” and 
soon she is lulled to sleep by the monotonous chant of the 
mill-dam, and the gentle music of the mighty elm. 

At length arrived the day of examination for college. 
Dan was too excited to care for breakfast. He wrought him- 
self into a fever over his necktie, and grew desperate with 
his hair. Phoebe stroked it, his mother brushed it, and he 
brushed it himself, until his scalp burned ; and Phoebe kept 
telling hini it couldn’t possibly look any prettier. 

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, hiding his pleasure under dis- 
sembled scorn ; “ I don’t want it pretty. I want it to look as 
if I had -some brains under it. Perhaps the Faculty might 
not think as 3"Ou do. Besides, I hate these pretty fellows.” 

At last he was dressed for the ordeal to his own satisfac- 
tion. His certificate of good moral character was safely be- 
stowed in his pocket. While his mother was giving a few 
words of counsel, Phosbe, almost crying, waited at the door, 
for she was going with him as far as the station. 

“ Come, Dan 1 ” said his father, “ 3*ou’ll be late.” 

He threw on his cap with a quick “ good-bye,” and walked 
off with Phoebe. As they hurried along he told her that he 
had been up all night, “ cramming” Euclid. That he rather 
thought they’d find it a “ tough job to stick ” him on algebra, 
and that he would bet he could trouble them some on the 
Anabasis, if they wanted to try it. They reached the station, 
and in a moment the cars arrived. He would have kissed 
her but for the crowd. 

“Good-b^^e!” he cried. “I wish 3^011 were going, too. 
Good-bye I ” 

“ Good-bye 1 Dan. Be sure and come back on the five- 
o’clock train I Pll be here to meet 3’ou. Good-bye 1 ” 

A warm grasp on her hand, a handkerchief fluttering from 
the car-window, and he was gone. But Phoebe stood, wav- 
ing her adieu, as long as the cars were in sight. Scarcely had 
the roar of the train died away when her ear caught the 
sound of some one gasping. She hurried off without delay. 
The dismal noise followed. Not a footfall could she hear ; 
but that well-known sign told her that the hated deacon was 
in pursuit. It was not easy to escape him on the street. 
Agile boys, indeed, if hard pressed, would dash through 
the shallows of the Wepawaug, and stand defiant on the fur- 


164 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


ther bank, lamicbing debasing epithets and muddy missiles. 
But Phoebe was debarred from that resource. Not twenty 
paces had she gone before the good man overtook her with 
the salutation, — 

“ Good- morning, dear child !” 

“Good-morning, sir,” returned Phoebe, shrinking a little 
towards the fence, and quickening her steps. Suddenly 
slackening his speed, the deacon rocked gently under his 
metaphorical pack, like a bird that has just alighted. 

“How fervently,” he began, “oh! how ferventl}^ dear 
child, have I desired to converse with you upon spiritual con- 
cerns. The chastening rod has indeed been laid heavily on 
you. I would fain ask if you can truly say, in the language 
of that sainted little girl of whom I once spake, ‘ I do not 
re})ine ; I kiss the rod.’ ” 

Phoebe’s silence signified that the deacon was at liberty to 
make the inquiry, but failed to inform him how far her senti- 
ments accorcled with those of his fictitious little bugbear. 

“ Do you find it good to be afflicted? ” he continued. “ Do 
3mu find \t per-recious to Amur soul?” 

“ No, sir,” returned Phoebe ; “ I don’t belicAm I ever shall.” 

“Alas, dear child!” resumed the deacon, “it is the 
rebellious nature of that unregenerate heart, and, perhaps, a 
wicked fear of the ridicule of sinful companions. Alas ! 
what dangerous influences surround 3’ou ! Oh ! how I ter- 
remble, lest the evil example of that reckless, recJdess youth 
drag you to perdition ! ” 

But the good man did not tremble as much as Phoebe, at 
that moment. Her whole nature rose up against this slander- 
ous attack on Dan, and, for the first time in her life, fear of 
the hateful deacon was mastered b}" anger. Hot tears sprang 
into her eyms. 

“ Deacon Biggot,” she cried, “ I wish you to stop calling 
Dan a reckless 3'outh. His example isn’t evil. I never 
know him do wrong. Didn’t he save me from ReAmr? 1 say 
he isn’t reckless. He’s good and brave, and I \o\e him ten 
thousand times more than anybody loves 3^11. Deacon 
Biggot, the Bible says Christians love one another, and I 
thought I must love you, if I was a Christian. But I couldn’t ; 
and now Pm glad, for I don’t believe you are one. If 3mu 
are, what makes all the children afraid of you? What makes 


A HOME. 


IGo 


them sa.y you burnt poor Jackedo to death? Why do people 
shiver when you pray? Deacon Biggot, my aunty told me 
to love Dan, and I always shall. 

Phoebe walked on, too indignant to be amazed at her own 
audacity, while the deacon, no less exasperated than aston- 
ished, tramped by her side. Away from the school-room, cor- 
poral punishment was out of the. question ; but he was plan- 
ning vengeance. Biting at the air, and inflating his cheeks 
two or three times, as if to set his buccinator muscles in good 
working-order, he groaned, — 

“ I do not rebuke you, beloved child. I forgive those 
revilings. It is not you, poor little forsaken.one ! but Satan 
that speaketh in 3^011.” 

Then, bowing with solemnity again and again, and giving 
free pla}" to his valves and to his imagination, he continued : 
“Just fourteen years ago to-da\' I met a little lad in this 
very street. Oh ! w-ell do I remember that poor, lost boy ! . 
He was a handsome 3’outh, but, alas ! a little scorner. The 
ga3'est of the gay, the chosen leader of a sinful band, the 
mocker of good men, he plunged headlong in his mad career. 
He was the only son and only hope of his parents, but oh ! 
sad, s-ad to relate, he scoffed at the holy counsel of a pious 
mother ! The last time I ever saw that unhappv boy alive was 
just such another bright morning as this. He was on his way 
to N H 

Phoebe’s anger began to give way to alarming presenti- 
ments. But the deacon, noting signs of success, bleated 
with terrif3ing accent, — 

“ Oh ! that fatal, f-atal journey ! ” 

Phoebe turned her eyes imploringl}" to his face, but cast 
them down again, shuddering at the sight. He looked like 
one inspired from an infernal realm. 

“ B V his side, ” he continued, “ walked a little maiden; 
and she, too, alas ! was a youthful scorner. She loved that 
sinful bo3^ He was her earthly idol. And, oh, how dread- 
ful was her punishment! I could but think, as I saw them 
together that bright morning, surel3", one must be taken and 
the other left.” 

The wily deacon paused a moment to quaflT fresh stimulus 
from Phoebe’s look of fright, and then resumed, with woful 
panting, — 


166 


A YOUNG DISOIPLE. 


“ I met them near the depot. Hoping to utter a word in 
season, I inquired of that wayward, wayward youth if he felt 
the error of his ways. But his heart was hardened. His 
only answer was, ‘ Go to the d — 1 , you poor, old Jo-osey I ' 
I said no more, for my heart was full. As I stood, and saw 
the maiden waving her handkerchief at the departing train, I 
knew no more than she that it was bearing her earthly idol 
away forever. Yet, within my bosom I could but think, 
verily, verily^ one must he taken^ and the other left.^’ 

“ Will you go away?” begged Phoebe, almost fainting. 
“ Will you leave me ? ” 

The deacon’s valves were playing horribly. He swallowed 
at the air, as if battening upon souls of the tormented. He 
tottered and gasped with supreme effort, while in tones that 
curdled Phoebe’s blood he exclaimed : “ Hark ! a shriek ! 
Behold ! a youthful form, falling beneath the flying train. 
•Where is that little scorner now ; oh I where f 

That climax completed the good man’s revenge, and he 
took himself off, under his metaphorical pack, while his 
victim fled home as fast as her trembling limbs could carry 
her. What can measure the anguish her innocent heart 
endured that day? Would the town clock never strike? 
Would the shadows never lengthen? Would he never, 7 iever 
come? Long before five o’clock she was at the station. She 
heard the distant whistle, at last, then the approaching roar, 
and the cars came rushing up. She saw her hero spring 
upon the platform, and heard him shout, — 

“ All right, Phoebe ! I’m all right ! ” 

She ran to meet him, crying, “ Oh, Dan, how glad I am 
you’ve come ! I knew 3"ou’d be all right, — 3^011 always are.” 

While they hastened home, he unfolded his certificate of 
admission to the college, and read it aloud. He told her how 
the tutors bored him with Euclid and Virgil, and how they 
made him dig the soil of memory for Greek roots. He told 
how wise the Faculty seemed, what pale faces and crooked 
backs they had, and how lean and famished-looking tliey 
were, with so much learning. He described the college 
buildings and the crowds of students, talking loud and fast, 
and walking with such strides tliat Phoebe almost ran by his 
side. All the evening she made him tell over and over the 
events of the da3\ But, after she had tucked hei self away 


A NEW HOME. 


167 


in bed, imagination conjured np a new danger. Dan might 
grow as wise as those very learned professors ; and Phoebe 
thought that a cadaverous face and a crooked spine would ill 
become her Apollo. Seven weeks of vacation before the 
term began — weeks that fled all too fast for Dan and 
Phoebe. Together they rambled up the lanes, and roamed 
through the Cedars. They found Bevor’s skull, bleached by 
sun and wind, and sat upon the ledge that overlooked the 
scene of his last struggle. From cups of whitewood leaves 
they drank, where crystal water and sparkling sand boiled up, 
at the foot of the ledge. They gathered the bark of the 
sweet-birch and the slippery-elm, and chewed bitter cedar 
apples, with loud, merry laughter at the wry faces they pro- 
voked. While Phoebe wove garlands of ground-pine and 
moss, Dan carved their names, close together, on the smooth 
bark of the beech. They found the sluggish land-turtles, 
and on their shells deciphered dates and initials engraved 
there by boys of a previous generation. Sometimes the 
sharp, double click of Dan’s gun-lock would answer the 
sudden whir of a partridge, and Phoebe would shrink behind 
Dan while he sent a random shot into the thicket. Perhaps 
a bluejay, or a yellow-hammer, darted out from a copse near 
by, on wings of terror, crossing an open glade with piercing 
screams, while close behind sped a cruel hawk, with flaming 
eyes and open beak. Quick as lightning Dan’s flashing gun 
would end that chase. The hawk, struck with sudden death, 
would fall like a stone, or, mortally wounded, flutter to the 
ground and stand with expanded pinions, conquered but un- 
daunted, dying but defiant. Sometimes they heaped dry 
leaves over the mouth of a woodchuck’s burrow, vainly try- 
ing to smoke the cunning old denizen out of his home. Other 
afternoons were spent in games under the great elm, or, with 
a fair wind and a favoring tide, devoted to excursions on the 
salt water. Phmbe loved to lave lier hands in the ripples, to 
watch the sprightly fish, skipping along the surface, and 
catch the lithe sea-weed floating past. But, when they 
reached the headlands, at the mouth of the harbor, Dan 
would call her to sit b}’^ him in the stern, away from the 
spra}’ that began to dash over the bow, and would steer out 
on the wide Sound. Then what keen delight to glide over 
the waves, with foaming prow and swelling sail, speeding 


168 


A roirm disciple. 


along almost as fast as the huge porpoises that frolicked 
around them. But, at last, the day of Dan’s departure came 
to end those memorable hours. On such an occasion, of 
' course, Mrs. Babbon’s nervous battery was highly charged. 
Around the kitchen the “poor imbecile” rushed, in frantic 
bewilderment, and the neglected poultry gathered on tlie 
sunny side of the garden fence in disconsolate grou[)s. 
Without wasting time in vain strateg}', Mr. Babbon took 
his seat at the breakfasf table, and gave thanks with an air 
of doing the very exercise in which he most delighted. 
His wife poured the coffee with wonderful tranquillity 
although Bridget was at the pump, wreaking vengeaiice. The 
worthy lady’s thoughts were dwelling on a distant vineyard, 
where laborers were few, and on tropic lands already ripe for 
the harvest. The eye of faith could see her own noble son, 
a sturdy reaper, binding precious sheaves in those black 
fields. Dan had not 3^et come down, but could be heard 
tramping about. His voice, too, rang out, in brisk melody, 
with the stanza: — 

“ If I were a cassowary, 

On the sands of Timbuctoo, 

I would eat a missionary, 

Skin, and bones, and hymn-book too.” 

Then he eame like a storm, down-stairs, and bounded into 
his seat with a heart}" “ good-morning ! ” to all. 

The e3"e of faith sees far, but, to the ey^e of reason, small 
promise of black sheaves in those hashing ey-es, unless 
garnered with a sword. 

Mr. Babbon feared that the cassowary would prove a dis- 
turber of domestic serenity. He preserved a discreet silence, 
while his carving-knife doubled a cape on the steak-bone. 

“ My son,” said Mrs. Babbon, with gentle inflection, “ I 
suppose 3"ou will have an opportunity to perfect yourself in 
ornithology at Yale. Probably they will teach y-ou there that 
the cassowary is not found in the Soudan, and "that he is not 
carnivorous.” 

“ Let me see ! ” said Mr. Babbon ; “ don’t they come from 
the Malay country, — from Malacca?” 

“ That’s so,” chimed in Dan, striving to stir up merriment. 


A NEW HOME. 


169 


“We may-lay it down for a certaint}" they don’t take to 
h3’mn-books, and they may-lack-a taste for missionaries.” 

“At all events,” returned Mrs. Babbon, “I wish your 
father would import one to replace that destructive creature 
in the kitchen. I haven’t the least doubt the bird would 
prove more intelligent than the beast.” 

Whereupon Bridget seized the broom, and began coursing 
the cat with Celtic fury. 

Mr. Babbon doubled another cape and addressed himself 
to his son. 

“Well, Dan, you’re going to college,” said he. “I sup- 
pose you know what you go there for?” 

“ Why, yes, sir ; I’m going there to study.” 

“ And I suppose you know what you’re going to study 
for? ” 

“ Certainly I do. I expect to get a good education.” 

“ Yes, that is why I send you to college. I wish you to 
have good advantages ; and, somehow, it seems to me that a 
college education is like a mechanic’s box of tools, — you 
must learn how to use it if it’s to be of an}" practical value. 
I’ve met a great many poor sticks of college graduates, in 
my life, — men who were supposed to have spent years culti- 
vating their minds, but who seemed as much at loss with 
their education as a mechanic with a box of strange tools. 
I don’t want you to come out of college to drift round all 
your life on a sea of theory, as helpless as a floating chip. 
You may as well understand, on the start, that you’ve got a 
hard tussle before you with a practical world.” 

“ Mr. Babbon, I should like some of the gravy,” said a 
pungent voice. “ It is solid cold, but it will do for me.” 

“ Certainly, my dear,” Mr. Babbon replied, and helped his 
wife to a bountiful supply. Then he continued : — 

“ Dan, I want you to remember, I send you to college ex- 
pecting you to improve your opportunities. You are start- 
ing on an untried path, where you will meet many tempta- 
tions. Bemember, your parents expect you to do your duty. 
I shall sustain you the best I can, but you will have to be 
economical.” 

A shadow crept over the speaker’s face. His wife knew 
that he was thinking of Gridly, and that the canker-worm 
was feeding on his heart. 


170 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


After breakfast came the hurry and worry of packing. 
Dan himself was full of hilarity. He talked loud and fast, 
without waiting for replies, and whistled cheerfully, too ex- 
cited and too busy to notice that Pheebe scarcely smiled. It 
was an inestimable privilege for her to kneel by his trunk, 
and hand him the things which he carefully packed away. 
From room to room she hunted, in search of missing vol- 
umes, and succeeded, unseen, in hiding between the leaves 
of one a satin book-mark, embroidered and worked with his 
name, — a secret task and the onl}*^ one of half a dozen that 
had reached satisfactory completion. She brought his slip- 
pers and mended his gloves, thinking all the time of the 
lonesome days coming ; fearing that amidst new scenes he 
would forget the pleasures they had shared, and the friends 
he had loved ; — dwelling upon that sad story of the Tyrian 
princess ; — almost bursting into tears — contending with 
cruel presentiments, and repeating to herself : — 

“ But I know he loves me ; once he said he’d die for me.” 
And yet, as the moments flew apace, plainer grew the 
image of the d3dng queen, pointing to the ship that was 
bearing off her faithless lover. Mrs. Bab bon, full of mother- 
ly affection and pride, busied herself with man^^ prepara- 
tions for her son’s comfort, giving good counsel and relaxing 
the tension of her nerves by eas}- stages. In one corner of 
his trunk she wedged “ Doddridge’s Rise and Progress,” 
between “ D3nng Thoughts ” and “ The Saints’ Rest.” Her 
most precious gift was a Bible. 

“Here, Dan; be careful of it!” said his father, handing 
him a roll of bank-notes, as he passed through the room, the 
shadow on his face testifying that the canker-worm was not 
yet appeased. 

“ O Mammon, Mammon, Mammon!'" cried Mrs. Babbon, 
with volcanic impatience surging beneath a lava-crust of 
resignation. The next moment she was distracted by a 
crash of crockery. 

“ My heart alive I ” she exclaimed. “ Phoebe, don’t daw- 
dle ; find last week’s Missionary Herald; pack it along with 
the Liberal Christians; I must see to that idiot I ” 

Thereupon she sped away to the dining-room, and Phoebe, 
kneeling 113^ the trunk, softl3^ murmured : — 

“ Dan, you’re going ! ” 


A NUW HOME. 


171 


Her lips quivering, her eyes brimming, — with unutterable 
sadness, as bidding farewell to one last sustaining hope. 

“ Dan, you’re going !” 

He turned to look into her e3"es, then knelt and threw his 
arms around her with a kiss as warm and tender as his own 
impulsive heart. No thought of Missionary Herald there. 
One instant swept all those Liberal Christians into oblivion. 
Unfathomable bliss ! too soon cut short by approaching foot- 
steps in the next room, and a penetrating voice calling out, — 

“Phoebe, don’t forget that little ‘Christian Love,’ in 
sheep.” 

Phoebe darted up-stairs, while Dan bent, with glowing 
cheeks, to fasten the straps of his trunk. Presentlv, the 
expressman came for the baggage, and Phoebe ran down 
again with hat and shawl. 

“Good gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Babbon ; “what’s 
the matter with 3^our e3’es ? Mercy on us 1 Hair all tangled 
and face like a beet ! I declare you look like a perfect fright ! 
Now stop sniffling, or 3^ou shan’t go a single step.” 

Phoebe made heroic efforts to compose her features. 

“ My son,” continued the anxious mother, “ don’t go 
into bad company.” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Shun tobacco and cards.” 

“ Yes, I will, mother.” 

“ Don’t forget your Bible.” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ ‘ Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it 
giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright.’ ” 

“ No, ma’am ; I don’t mean to.” 

“ And come home as often as you can.” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; be sure I will. Good-bye ! ” 

“ One last word, my son. Cleave always to that which is 
good, and pure, and true.” 

“ Mother, you may be sure I always shall. Good-bye ! ” 

As he turned, his dark e3'es rested a moment on Phoebe, 
with a glance unseen except by her, — one swift flash, re- 
vealing to her alone his whole fflith and creed, — that there 
he found the best, the purest, and the most constant of earth 
or heaven, and that to her he. would ever cleave. At the 
gate he looked back for one last “ good-bye,” tlien walked 


172 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


rapidly off with Phoebe, while both parents stood fondly 
watching from the piazza ; and Phoebe, looking archly up at 
him, said, — 

“ Dan, do you think Pm a perfect fright?” 

“Just the kind of fright I love ! ” he declared, with un- 
mistakable emphasis. Then, talking fast, he told her of his 
hopes and plans, while she hurried on by his side, her heart 
too full for words. They barely reached the station before the 
train was there. Dan gave a parting kiss, despite the 
assembled crowd. A moment later he leaped upon the cars 
and was gone. 

“Good-bye, Dan! good-bye!” in a quivering voice that 
was drowned by the roar of the wheels, and Phoebe turned 
slowly towards home. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAS RECENTLY ENTERED 
COLLEGE. 

Dan had no sooner left the cars at N H than 

he found himself in a scene of wild confusion. A turbulent 
crowd of young men filled the place with uproar, wrangling, 
shouting, and struggling fiercely around certain 3"ouths, who 
like Dan, had just arrived. Loud vociferations rent the air 
with deafening discord. Rousing cheers were commingled 
with hoarse yawping, and shrill falsettos piped high above 
the growling of heavy bassos. The tumult was indescriba- 
ble ; hats and caps innumerable were bandied like shuttle- 
cocks ; above the throng valises took zigzag flight, like 
flitting bats, while their helpless owners were lifted, pushed, 
and pulled, now this way, now that, alternately rising over 
the level of the mob and sinking out of sight like boats tossed 
on angrjr waves. Not a few callow striplings — heroic spirits 
encased in feeble frames — coasted round the edge of the 
throng, with spectacles riding uneasily on their noses, and 
bludgeons in their hands, cheering their partisans. Some 
made the welkin ring with the slogan, “ Linonia ! Linonia ! ” 
while others groaned, and yelled, and shrieked themselves fran- 
tic with answering cries of “Brothers! Brothers! Brothers in 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


173 


Unity ! ’* A dense cloud of dust half obscured the operations 
of the crowd. The hackmen were driven from their stands. 
The few policemen present were inactive spectators, though 
the strife grew hotter and louder, for there was no actual 
breach of the peace. It was a contest between rival col- 
lege societies to enroll the new-comers on their respective 
catalogues. On all sides echoed shouts of — 

“Here’s your crowd!” “Pledged yourself?” “Look 
out for those fellows!” “.Drop him, I tell you! He’s 
ours ! ” 

Dan was unable to defend himself or even to remonstrate. 
He was bewildered. Two clutched him and clung fast, a 
Linonian on one side and a Brother on the other, swaying 
him hither and thither while others fastened upon them. 
But a phalanx of Linonians, led by a tall, handsome fellow, 
came on like a forlorn hope and carried him off in triumph. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said the leader, passing his arm through 
Dan’s, — “excuse me, sir; 3’oung gentlemen who have re- 
cently entered college are frequently imposed upon by those 
roughs. I shall be happy to protect you, and to give any 
other assistance in my power. Permit me, sir, to conduct 
you to the classic halls of Yale ! ” 

Dan now felt full}'' competent to protect himself, but it 
occurred to him tliat he might require some assistance in his 
studies, and, besides, he would not be outdone in politeness. 

“Thank you, sir,” he replied; “I suppose I ought to 
look after my baggage before we go up.” 

His companion, who was alread}’ guiding him by a circui- 
tous route toward the college, called to a band of followers 
that served as a rear-guard against any raiding part}" of 
Brothers. One of these ran up at the summons. 

“ Here, Teddy,” said the leader. “ Be kind enough to 
take this gentleman’s checks and see that his baggage is 
removed to the — where would 3"Ou prefer to stop, sir?” 

“ Wherever 3"ou advise, sir,” replied Dan. 

“ To the N H House, Teddy, if 3’ou please, without 

unnecessaiy dela}’.” 

Teddy sped back to the station, and the two resumed their 
walk. 

“ You have now seen a rising poet,” said the guide. “ Ted. 
Popkins is a brilliant star in Linonia’s galaxy. Pity, though, 


174 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


great pit}", bis eyes are so bad. It comes of burning the 
midnight oil. I’ve told him, often, kerosene would be 
better for bis eyes ; but he’s in love with this new fusel oil, 
and he’d rather sit in the dark than be without it.” 

“Can you tell me,” inquired Dan, “ the meaning of all 
that row when the cars came in?” 

“Indeed, my dear sir,” his new friend returned, “ I don’t 
wonder you ask. I blush to confess that our Alma Mater 
harbors such a rowdy gang. The conduct of those dissipated 
Brothers is a disgrace to the college and a reproach to the 
town. You see, ever since the college was founded, there 
has been connected with it a literary society, which every 
student is expected to join as soon as he arrives. That 
society, sir, is the far-famed Linonia. But, recently, a few 
members were expelled for certain ungentlemanly practices — 
gross immoralit}" in fact — and they are now endeavoring to 
establish a rival association. They were creating that dis- 
turbance. They would have rushed 3"Ou to their hall and 
sworn 3"ou in, before you knew what you were about. They’re 
a de — h’m ! a desperate rough crowd ; entirely unfitcompanions 
for gentlemen. Let me advise you, sir, as a friend: have 
nothing to do with those unprincipled Brothers in Unity ! ”* 

“ It appears they don’t wait to be invited,” said Dan. 
“ They wanted to force themselves upon me.” 

“Yes, sir; their customary impudence,” his self-consti- 
tuted protector answered. “ The best way to avoid their rude- 
ness is by promising to link your destiny with our immortal 
Linonia. Then, if they annoy 3-011, tell them3-ou are pledged, 
and the}" will let you alone.” 

Dan^gave his promise, and in a few moments the}- reached 
the hotel. Dan’s companion slapped the clerk on the back, 
saying, — 

“ Come, Hany, trot us out a good room now, and be 
quick. Here’s a friend of mine — excuse me, but I’ve for- 
gotten your name — ” 

“Babbon,” explained Dan. 

“ My friend Mr. Babbon,” resumed the other. “ I believe 
this is his first absence from the paternal roof, and of course 
he’s more or less lonesome ; so, trot us out a cose}", pleasant 
room. Mr. Babbon is accustomed to having everything done 
in good shape. Come, stir your pedals, tny dainty friend ! ” 


A YOUN'G GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


175 


The obsequious clerk made haste, and the twain wereTm- 
mediatel^^ shown to a comfortable room. 

“And now, Mr. Babbon,” said Dan’s protector, “if you 
will excuse me a moment, I will send up your baggage. Per- 
haps you had better not venture out before I return. Those 
unscrupulous Brothers in Unity are capable of anything.” 
With that caution he repaired to the bar-room. 

“ My stars ! What a splendid fellow ! ” Dan said to himself, 
reflecting on the savoir-faire of his gentlemanly friend and 
the obligations he owed him. Hardly was he seated, how- 
ever, before some one knocked. 

“ Come in,” said Dan. 

The door opened and a frail youth in spectacles entered 
with a courteous bow. He had followed in their wake, had 
examined the hotel register to learn Dan’s name, and had 
waited till he saw the tall Linonian absorbed and absorbing 
in the bar-room. “ I believe,” said he, with a genial smile, 
I have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Dan Babbon, of Yale.” 
“ Yes, sir,” replied Dan ; “ will you please take a chair? ” 
“Thank you, sir, thank 3’ou. Your first appearance, 1 
presume, in the character of a Yalensian?” • 

“Yes, sir ; I have just entered college.” 

“Very glad, indeed, Mr. Babbon, that you have come to 
draw intellectual nourishment from our Alma Mater. Every 
3’oung gentleman of good principles is a welcome addition to 
our number. I feel a deep interest in the youngest class, 
and hope you won’t think me impertinent if I offer a single 
suggestion. I presume 3^011 are ignorant of the character of 
that individual who pretends to so much solicitude for your 
welfare. Don’t trust him, sir! He is unreliable. He is 
one of those depraved Linonians. Why, sir, our beloved 
Alma Mater is scandalized by their behavior. Their blas- 
phemy is something shocking, and their poor scholarship no 
torious. They are a reproach to the college, — a len-or to 
the town. He who has just left you is a noted leader in the 
impious band. He would entice you from the companionship 
of the best and most talented. Don’t allow it, Mr. Babbon ! 
Take your proper place in the ranks of Virtue and Genius I 
Join the noble Brothers in Unity! See this list of prizes 
tMkeii by members of our glorious fraternity ; examine this 
long catalogue of illustrious names ! Here 3’ou have the 


176 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


great men of our country, — scholars, poets, orators, states- 
men. Brothers in Unit}^, sir, every one. Come, let me show 
yon our magnificent hall, and 3^ou shall see what a cordial 
welcome you will have ! You will be just as certain, sir, to 
join the Brothers in Unity, as a Linonian would be to fizzle 
the Lord’s prayer, or flunk the pons asinorvm. Now’s the 
time. Carps diem! Commit yourself to the fraternal care of 
the Brothers ! Say you will !” 

Dan was perplexed. At that moment, however, his ab- 
sent guide returned with urgent haste, crying, — 

“Shade of Bacchus! Here’s Rummy Tommy. Hullo, 
ray Bacchanalian friend I How is it you’re out so early 
to-da}"? That was a ro3’al nasty drunk 3^011 Brothers had 
last night. I just heard of it. But those festive revels 
won’t do for 3'ou, my jolly Silenus ; they’re sapping your 
vitals very fast.” / 

Nobody could be more innocent of intoxicating beverages 
than the spectacled youth. Arguments he could command 
in plenty, but for these tactics he was wholly unprepared. 
He grew red in the face, and exclaimed : — 

“ Sir ! this trick is infamous as it is shallow. I shall — ” 
“There, there; now, don’t be uneasy!” interposed the 
Linonian. “My friend Mr. Babbon is very discreet; he 
won’t mention it. I’m sure.” 

“Certainly' not, sir,” exclaimed Dan. “I’m not one of 
that kind.” 

“ Of course not,” rejoined his protector. “ Our friend 
here is a tip-top, clever fellow ; rather too much addicted 
to the flowing bowl and that sort of thing, you know, but 
that’s only because of his unfortunate connection with those 
Brothers. Better drop them. Rummy. Those literary ex- 
ercises are wasting 37'our fairy form.” 

The feeble youth vainly attempted a remonstrance. He 
could not get in a word. With rapid volubility the other 
continued : — 

“But, seriously, Thomas, 3'our classic throat will have to 
forego its customary beverage awhile, or 3'our joys will be 
nipped in their bloom. The Faculty have got wind of 3'our 
last spree. They’re holding a meeting this morning to take 
action about it. So, glide for your room, quick, and lock 
up your jugs and bottles ! ” 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


177 


“'This,” cried the indignant Brother, “is most unfair as 
well as iingentlemanl^" — ” 

“ Come, come ! don’t be offended ! ” interposed the other. 
“ I wouldn’t have said a word only I knew my friend Mr. 
Babbon was too honorable to mention it.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” Dan again declared. 

“ Certainl}', Thomas,” echoed his guide. “Mr. Babbon 
is the soul of honor. Mr. Babbon, sir, is a Linonian.” 

“ Mr. Babbon,” inquired the Brother, “ have you already 
joined that infamous band?” 

“A prospective member, my dear fellow,” cried the tall 
Linonian; “a prospective member. There’s just one seat 
left, and that I have secured for my friend. He is certain 
to be elected.” 

“ What bald impudence ! ” muttered the astounded Brother. 
To which the Linonian replied, with a majestic wave of the 
hand, — • 

“ The only vacant niche in Linonia’s lofty halls will soon 
receive the proud form of m3' fortunate friend Mr. Babbon.” 

Opening the door with the friendly admonition, “ O cave 
pocula^ amice"' he bowed out the discomfited Brother, who 
departed precipitately. 

“ I shouldn’t have suspected it from his appearance,” said 
Dan. 

“No, sir,” the triumphant Linonian replied, with a sor- 
rowful shaking of his head, “ you wouldn’t. Nobod}' could 
believe it unless they had seen it. A genuine, tip-top, clever 
fellow, but ruined already. Ruined by that immoral society. 
Only one short 3'ear ago that 3’oiing man came to the classic 
sha(ies of Yale in all the verdrue of innocence, — '•'‘integer vitae 
scelerisque purus,'” those Brothers threw their coils round 
him, and have made him — what he is. But permit me, sir, to 
escort you to Linonia’s temple.” 

Taking Dan’s arm he led him out of the hotel. They 
passed through the college campus, where they saw other 
couples and trios hurr3'ing towards the same goal. 

“ Linonia’s gallant sons,” explained Dan’s companion, 
“ hastening to her arms ! ” 

They entered a large stone building, by a door that opened 
into a tower, and began ascending a winding staircase. Far 
above them could be heard ringing cheers and songs of jubi- 


178 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


lee, announcing that other Freshmen were gathered in. 
Dan’s guide led him into a spacious, elegantly-furnished hall, 
filled with young men, who greeted the new-comers witliwild 
hurrahs, as they seated themselves in front of the president’s 
desk. Then he arose and said, — 

“ Mr. President, I have the honor to propose, as a mem- 
ber of this honorable society, Mr. Dan Babbon, of the Class 
of—” 

Loud cheers burst from every mouth. As soon as order 
was restored the president said, — 

“Mr. Babbon will please rise and receive the pledge.” 

Dan stood up to take the oath, then was led to the desk to 
sign his name. Tumultuous acclaim sounded his welcome ; 
he felt himself already prominent among the great ones of 
earth. While he returned to his seat, all joined in a deafening 
chorus, to the stirring air of Cmmbambuli, singing, shouting, 
and screaming, over and over again, — 

“ And ’ere our children lisp mama, 

We’ll make them sing Linoni — ah. 

Long live Linonia ! Lino-nee-ee-yah ! ” 

Many times the enthusiasm waned, and seemed about to 
expire for want of breath ; but some shrill tenor would 
make a fresh start, and one after another would fall in, with 
reviving energy, swelling the crescendo like a clamorous 
fugue., until all came together at the end with that long, 
frenzied, “ no-nee-ee-yah ! ” 

But now was heard the cry, — 

“ Speech ! Speech ! Babbon ! Babbon ! ” and Dan became 
conscious of new and startling sensations. To one who had 
never attempted even a declamation, outside of Deacon Big- 
got’s district-school, the idea of addressing that audience 
was terrifying. But louder and more imperative grew the 
cries, — 

“Babbon! Babbon I Speech! Sp-eech ! ” until, in sheer 
recklessness, Dan leaped to his feet. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I am not much accustomed to 
public speaking — ” 

Shouts of “ Good ! Good ! ” echoed all around him. 

“ — But I — I am — a — a Linonian ! ” Thunders of ap- 
l)lause greeting this declaration, stimulated him to add — 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


179 


“A recent and a — an — an humble member, but — but 
still — still to the very core a Linoniaii ! ” 

Again loud vociferations of delight shook the walls and 
died away. 

“As I said before, gentlemen, I am — not greatly accus- 
tomed — that is — I am no speaker. But, in mj^ bosom, 
gentlemen-beats — beats the heart of a — a Linonian ! ” 

Loud cries of approbation attested the delight evoked 
by this sentiment, and gave Dan a moment to clutch at 
whirling ideas. But the cessation of the uproar urged him on. 

“ That I am one, gentlemen, I feel and know — feel and 
know, that I owe to my kii-.d friend here who is so — who 
is also — a — a gentleman and a — a Linonian. I am not 
very much accustomed — that is, I do not express' my 
thoughts clearly, for — for I am a Fresh — that is to say, I 
have but recently* entered college. But those thoughts, 
gentlemen, are the thouglits of — a Linonian. Long live 
Linonia ! ” — (rounds of rapturous plaudits). “ But, gentle- 
men, how can I express the pleasure I feel in — in being 
elected to this noble and — ancient and — time-honored 
and — fraternal and ” — (wild cries of “ Good ! Good ! ” and 
one shrill voice, piping like a piccolo., above the cheers 
and laughter, “ Oh, now we go ! ”) “ — yes, gentlemen, and 
— and moral institution. But, gentlemen, I say — and 
always shall — Linonia forever ! ” 

Again the amphitheatre rocked and trembled to the enthu- 
siasm. Dan was giddy with an intoxicating sense of having 
suddenly found his proper sphere. Plucking fresh heart 
from chaos he continued, — 

“Gentlemen, excuse my agitation; it is merely because 
I am unaccustomed to — to— a Linonian; that is, you 
understand me, gentlemen, as — as Linonians. Gentlemen, 
this is the happiest hour of my life. But, unaccustomed as 
I am to public speaking, I would only say — remark — 
merely remark, gentlemen — that — that ere my children 
lisp ‘ mama’ Pll make them sing ‘ Linoni-ah ! ’ Long live 
Linoni-ah ! ” 

Once more uprose a tornado of cheers and mad plau- 
dits, with stamping, whistling, and clapping of hands, 
as if brigades were firing at will, in hot action. Dan sank 
into his seat drenched with sweat, while that shrill piccolo 


180 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


voice started the chorus again, and the vast building trem- 
bled, as all came together with, might and main, in their 
final harmony of “ no-nee-ee-yah ! ” 

Other Freshmen were brought in, and it seemed to Dan 
that several vacant niches must have been overlooked by 
his friend. 

“Perhaps we had better retire now,” whispered the latter, 
and, Dan bowing assent, he led the wa}’ out. 

“How did I get along on that speech?” inquired Dan, 
not 3’et recovered from the inebriation of triumph. 

“A regular stunner, by Jupiter!” exclaimed the other. 
“ A very brilliant success for a young gentleman who has 
recently" entered college. Didn’t you notice how the}' cheered 
every time you made a good period? You tossed it off in 
quite the handsome style. Especially when you pledged 
those little Babbons of the future to our glorious Linonia. 
There’s where you rung in a good point. It brought down 
the house. I’m proud of 3'ou, — proud of the honor of 
leading 3mu to Linonia’s bosom. You’ll be veiy popular.” 

“ ’Twas the hottest work I ever had,” returned Dan, 
“ except one or two fights. I don’t know how I got through 
it as well as I did. You see, I’ve never been drilled in 
speaking, — never had anybody to show me how. But I 
did better than I expected. 1 suppose I’m all through now, 
ain’t I, sir?” 

“ Veiy nearly',” replied his protector. “You see, these 
society matters at Yale are arranged with mathematical pre- 
cision. You have acquitted ymurself with credit on the first 
problem, and, of that, nothing remains but the corollaiy. 
Of course you are not y'et posted on Yalensiana. From time 
immemorial it has been the practice for new members of 
Linonia to invite the gentleman who secures their election 
to take some light refreshments, — oysters and lemonade, 
you know, or something of that sort.” 

“ Is there any good place near by?” inquired Dan. 

“ Yes,” replied his companion, “ there’s the Omnium 
Gatherum., across the street, a famous resort of Yalensians.” 

Thither they repaired. Oy'sters and lemonade, liowever, 
formed but an insignificant part of the entertainment. 
The skill of caterer and of cook was taxed for that ban- 
quet. 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


181 


It’s good lemonade,” said Dan, after a copious draught. 

“ Yes,” returned his companion, “ the}^ get you up a prime 
article here. An excellent drink, too, for a young gentle- 
man just beginning a collegiate course. The proprietor tells 
me he imports lemons by the cargo for the Freshman class. 

“Is it possible, sir? ” 

“ Not a doubt of it, Mr. Babbon. Why, the Faculty have 
been for the last two 3’ears discussing the question of sup- 
plying lemonade free, in all Freshman recitation-rooms. 
It’s a veiy cooling drink, 3’ou see, and the tutors make 
things hot for Freshmen. Besides, they think it would keep 
them from resorting to drinking-saloons, and no doubt it 
would. The treasurer objects. He says it would seriousl3'’ 
impair the resources of the college. However, I suggested 

to Professor H the other da3' that the expense might be 

defra3^ed by assessing the class, and he thought quite favor- 
ably of it ; but as you get further along, Mr. Babbon, in 
3"Our college course, you will find you occasionally require 
something rather more stimulating than lemonade. The 
mental strain of Sophomore year is simpl3" terrible. Waiter, 
trot me out one of those with the green seal ; one of the 
long-necked ones, you know ! Yes, Mr. Babbon, young 
gentlemen who have recently entered upon their college 
curriculum are apt to suppose we upper-class men have 
easy times. Nothing can be more erroneous. The amount 
of intellectual labor devolving upon us Sophomores is some- 
thing incredible. I find lemonade quite unequal to it.” 

At length the feast was finished, and Dan’s friend declared 
that the corollary had been completed in a manner creditable 
to a scholar and a gentleman ; adding that, by way of a 
scholium, he would take a bunch of cigars to wind up the 
affair, like a student and a Linonian. 

Whatever opinion Dan had formed about the incredible 
mental strain of Sophomore year, this much is certain : 
when he came to settle the bill he found there something 
astouisliing. 

' “Will 3’ou fumigate?” inquired his friend, lighting a 
cigar. 

“ No, sir, I thank y^ou,” replied Dan. “ I intend never to 
smoke.” 

“One of those resolutions,” observed the Sophomore, 


182 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ that bo3^s alwa3"S make at the beginning of their college 
course. As a rule the Freshman does not indulge in the 
leaf, I believe. They do not, in fact, require it as the3" will 
further along in their studies. Later on, m3^ lad, when 3'ou 
begin to feel the mental strain of Sophomore year, you’ll 
discover that tobacco is your medicine. Then 3^ou’ll smoke 
like a steamboat.” 

“ Medicine is something I never need,” replied Dan, upon 
whose ear fell unpleasantl3' the tone of light banter now 
adopted by his friend. 

“ Yes, 1 see,” said the Sophomore ; “ 3’ou have the ap- 
pearance of a healthy bo3% — Mens sana in sano corpore; but 
the Sophs are the best judges of what is good for Freshmen, 
and it often happens that the3" have to administer correctives. 
However, we’ll discuss that at some fiiture time. I have an 
engagement now with Professor H , and mustn’t disap- 
point him. Devilish good fellow is H . He and I are 

thick as thieves. One little service, though, I’d like to do 
you before I go. You haven’t found 3’our rooms yet, have 
you ? ” 

“ No,” replied Dan ; “I haven’t engaged any.” 

“ Well, I’ve looked out for 3’ou,” continued the Sopho- 
more. “ You want to be in with a first-class set. There 
are some elegant rooms to let at No. — , North College, 
occupied at present b}' one of the resident licentiates ; but 
he’s going out of the business.” 

“ Who are the3', sir? ” inquired Dan. 

“ Oh, a licentious crowd,” replied the Sophomore ; — “ al- 
ways hanging round the college. They’re preachers. 
Licensed by somebody or other to make ten dollars every 
Sunday. You should see them of a Saturda3^ afternoon, 
flocking over into Macedonia to help the country churches. 
Monday morning they come tripping back again with their 
little lucre.” 

“ I have seen them,” returned Dan. “ We’ve had them 
in our pulpit at home, many a time.” 

“ So has everybody,” said the Sophomore. “ Eveiy 
year we turn out a full crop, — weevils don’t light on them. 
I’ve always observed, when a man is a natural-born lunk- 
head he thinks he has a call to the ministiy.” 

With a laugh, Dan bade his friend adieu and hastened off 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


183 


to secure those desirable rooms. He found them without 
difficulty, and his eager knock was answered by a petulant 
voice asking him to walk in. He entered a well-fiirnislied 
study. Over a book upon a centre-table sat, warped, a 
gaunt, elderly gentleman, with a general aspect of physical 
decay, his spine curved like a sextant, and his wan, blood- 
less countenance resembling the face of a skull, except for 
dark lustrous eyes that gleamed, like glow-worms, in their 
hollow orbits. This gentleman stared frostil3' through his 
spectacles, and, with an ic}" bow, instantly" froze all hope of 
social converse. The atmosphere of the place was Polar. 

Dan stood rooted to the floor, and hardly’ mustered courage 
to inquire, “ Do you wish to let 3^our rooms, sir?” 

That spectral gaze grew menacing. Without heeding the 
question, the frigid gentleman inquired, — 

“ Are you a member of college?” 

Dan turned scarlet with embarrassment while he replied, — 

“Yes, sir; one of the students told me 3^ou wanted to let 
3’our rooms. How much do 3'ou ask for them by the 
month?” 

“ The skull-face maintained its ston3" look, and in a voice 
of stern authority demanded, — 

“ To which class do 3*011 belong? ” 

Dan was seized b3’ a harrowing sense of unseen peril. He 
changed his hat from one hand to the other, and back again, 
changed the color of his cheeks from scarlet to white, and 
faintly replied, — 

“ To the Freshman class, sir.” 

Whereupon, a net- work of wrinkles and a maze of fur- 
rows spread swiftly and silently over that spectral visage, 
from ear to ear and from brow to chin. Those great, glow- 
ing e3'es retreated to their inmost caverns, sparkled there 
like fire-flies, and then went out. It was the expression of a 
Stoic on the rack. But the skull-face was not tortured. It 
was laughing. It simply said, “ I perceive, sir, you have 
been — te-he ! — victimized.” 

Dan backed out, overwhelmed with chagrin and all aflame 
with indignation ; and could he then have met that treacher- 
ous guide, theri 3 would have been an immediate trial of 
Freshman and Sophomore muscle. Suspicion once admitted, 
a host of doubts rushed in. He doubted the necessity or 


18 t 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


propriety of corollary and scholium; doubted whether his 
speech had been so very stunning after all, and doubted 
exceedingh^ the moral superiority of Linonians over Brothers 
in Unit}'. But rooms must be found. Seeing the Professor 
of Dust-and-ashes reposing in his wheelbarrow on the college 
campus, he applied to him for information. That humble 
menial, more trustworthy than the elegant Sophomore, showed 
him where advertisements could be found in plenty. Thus 
ended that difficulty. A pleasant room was soon engaged, 
in a private house near the colleges. Having established 
himself there, Dan devoted the rest of the day to his lesson 
for the next morning. But Phoebe came not to hear his 
stories of Cerberus, of Dido, and of Cyrus. A longing, home- 
sick feeling grew upon him while he sat bending over his 
Livy, until, at last, he closed the book and lay down to recall 
ihe parting hour, — to dwell upon the image of Phoebe’s 
sweet, sad face, when, with swimming eyes and quivering 
lips, she could only say, “ Dan, you’re going, ” — to think of 
her returning into bondage, in the hated school-room, and 
submitting once more to the tyranny of cruel Deacon Biggot. 
But, some vacation he would go home, with a tall hat tipped 
jauntily on his head, and a fierce mustache curled round his 
lip. Then would he take Deacon Biggot by the collar, aixl 
spat him two or three times ; not very hard, because probably 
the deacon wouldn’t fight, but just enough to let him know 
that Phoebe wasn’t unprotected. He would be a diligent 
student ; would take the valedictory and lay it as an offering 
at Phoebe’s feet. Fainter and fainter grew the merry songs 
and peals of jolly laughter that rang out from under the elms 
of the college campus. The night fled away in sound, health- 
ful sleep, and the chapel bell rang for morning prayers. It 
was half-past six o’clock when Dan hurried on his clothes 
and started on a run. Hundreds of students were darting 
out of neighboring houses, and out of the colleges, many 
only half-awake, some adjusting their attire as they went, 
and others hastily scanning open books, but all making good 
speed towards the chapel. Nearly all were inside before the 
last stroke and Dan among the number. He saw certain 
ones rise — monitors they were called — and mark the names 
of all present. He saw elevated seats, in bbxes that jutted 
conspicuously from the walls all around the room, coignes of 


A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT COLLEGE. 


185 


vantage whence vassal tutors, and even grave professors, kept 
vigilant watch ; and, in the sacred desk, with a feeling of 
dismay he recognized that very skull-face whose rooms he 
had tried to rent, and which had so crushed him with its mild 
“ te-he ! ” He folded his hands devoutly, and riveted his 
eyes on the pulpit, for he had fully resolved to go through 
liis college course without a single mark of demerit. Prayers 
over, the students thronged out and crowded along towards 
their lecture-rooms, talking, joking, and laughing with ex- 
uberant jollity, all except the Freshmen. These, for the most 
part strangers to each other and to their environment, walked 
singly towards the building set apart for them, with homesick 
hearts and apprehensive faces, while loud jests, and shouts of 
ridicule, were rained upon them by their traditionary tyrants, 
the Sophomores. Many besides Dan Avondered at the change 
that had come over those polished gentlemen who, only yes- 
terday, had taken such pains to secure them an election to 
their moral societies, and to help them through corollary and 
scholium., like students and gentlemen. Those false friends, 
so kind and courteous then, now shouted with loud derision, 
“Oh, Freshie ! where’s your bib?” “Hats off, Tirones!'' 
“ Beware the Sagamores ! ” “ Poor little Fresh ! ” “ Wait, 

Freshmen, till the Sophs take you in hand ! ” 

To such taunts it was hard for Dan to listen in silence. 
But his first recitation proved a far greater source of trouble. 
He supposed that he knew the first page of Livy perfectly. 
Accordingly", when the tutor, turning his ey^es along the as- 
sembled faces, called out “Babbon ! ” Dan leaped to his feet 
with ready" self-possession. He opened his book, and waited 
for the signal to proceed with the translation. But the tutor, 
eying him closely, inquired : 

“ Who was Livy?*’ 

It was the only question that Dan had not anticipated. 
He coughed to gain time, and grew very red under the gaze 
of fifty" pairs of eyes. 

“ Perhaps,” said the tutor, mildly, “ you did not under- 
stand the question. Who was Livy?” 

Dan cast his eyes up to one corner of the room Avith a 
look of profound research, and inaudibly repeated, “ Who 
icas Livy?” But from the plaster he could derive no 
iijformation whatever about the Roman historian. He 


18 G 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


thought, however, that he could see the valedictory soaring 
beyond his reach, and the sight made him sick at heart. He 
heard the tutor, sa}', “ That is sufficient,” and dropped to his 
seat. Another was called, and aflSrmed that Livy was “a 
gentleman who flourished in the Roman empire.” He didn’t 
remember the exact time when he flourished, nor the precise 
locality, but it was somewhere south of Gaul, or east of the 
Adriatic ; and that answer also was found sufficient. Dan 
was very miserable. He thought how disappointed his father 
would be, if he knew of that disgraceful failure, and of how 
it would make him fall in Phoebe’s estimation. Nor, when 
they left the recitation-room, was his sense of misery at all 
alleviated by the gibes of passing Sophomores. 

“ U.w\\o\ fizzled!’' cried one. Another cawed like a crow, 
and shouted, “Flunked, by Jove! Poor little Frershie ! 
Nasty tutor’s been and gone and flunked him dead. Never 
mind the flunks. Freshman, but beware the Areopagus ! ” 

At a distance a group of Sophomores were, loudly singing 
a meriy chorus, whereof Dan distinguished the following 
stanzas ; — 

Never, never will he smoke ; 

Barricades his door ; 

But, with long-tailed calumet, 

Comes the Sagamore. 

Freshie pulls his pop-gun out, 

Swears he’ll give him — well. 

Then the bloody Sagamore 
Raps him on the shell. 

Smokes him out and smokes him in. 

Disciplines him sore ; 

Turns his stomach inside out, 

Pukes him on the floor. 

Claps a helmet, wrought from clay. 

On his pate of tow ; 

Makes him scan and conjugate. 

Flunks him with pepo. 

“ Pepo, pepo” hear him peep ! 

‘ ‘ Onis ” hear him squall ! 

While the merry headache-sticks 
On his helmet fall. 

Airy as a mountain top, 

Freshie is no more ; 

For his little comb is cut, — 

Cut by Sagamore. 


PETER ORIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


187 


Dan waited not to hear any further, but turned away 
towards his room with a heavy heart. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 

As a liquor-store the Clover-Leaf was, apparently, dying 
a lingering death. For some reason there were few pa- 
trons of that bar. But Mr. Gridly occasionally stopped 
there for a dram, and thus an acquaintance had grown up 
between him and Mr. Flinteye. Nor was Gridl}^ long in 
discovering that he was almost the onl}^ customer, except 
the proprietor himself, and in concluding that the profits of 
the business could not support Mr. Flinte3'e. That his 
neighbor was engaged in some secret operations he strongly 
suspected ; but what those operations were, all his efforts 
had thus far failed to ascertain. He had expected Mr. 
Flinteye to grow confidential, or loquacious, under the influ- 
ence of numerous irregulars, and had wasted many hours 
plying him with powerful ones, both hot and cold. And 
Mr. Flinte^^e did sometimes grow confidential ; but his 
confidence began and ended with his left eye. When heated 
with half a dozen larger and hotter ones than usual, he would 
wink in a striking^ communicative way. On his part, he 
had observed that Gridly had no regular hours of work or 
business, for he would appear in the Clover-Leaf at an}' 
time, day or evening. He, too, had hoped for revelations 
fi-om the irregulars, and had mixed some almost red-hot ; 
but Gridly always stopped drinking. before he lost command 
of his wits. 

Late one evening, Mr. Flinteye sat alone in his bar-room, 
whiling away the time with his pipe and his regulars, when 
Gridly walked in. 

“How are you, Mr. Gridly?” said the affable Old Bum- 
mer, beaming with cordial welcome. “Brisk and hearty as 
ever?” 

“Well, no,” replied Gridly; “can’t say I do feel 
brisk ; — sort of dumpish round the stomach. Only just 
about tol-lol ; that’s all.” 


188 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Better take something hot,” suggested the other. 
“ Something aa will melt the chill otf .your interior.” 

Whereto Gridly answered, “Just as you say, Flinteye. 
On a motter of that sort your opinion is solid.” 

“ I should rather think it was,” returned Mr. Flinteye; 
“and, if 3’ou’ll be guided by a man as is posted on them 
interior chills, one as was p’obably born with ’em, you’ll go 
3’onr first one hot. Arter that 3'ou can let ’em vary ; but go 
your leader hot. Set down till I mix 3'ou a warmer.” 

Gridly seated himself b}- the table, and Mr. Flinte\'e pres- 
ently placed the warmer before him, taking a seat opposite, 
with a cooler for liimself. Easy contentment reposed on the 
flaming features of the host, and his voice was as pleasant 
as the voice of Benevolence. No vestige of care or trouble 
appeared on his countenance. Perhaps he was familiar with 
scenes the contemplation of which swallowed up all petty vex- 
ations. But Grid I3" sat there, scanning with ferret-eyes every 
line of Flinteye’s face, unable to determine whether he was 
dunce or knave. In a harsh, metallic tone, as if an iron 
tongue were filing his lips of brass, he said, “Flinteye, I 
write you down a sharp one.” 

Mr. Flinte^'e slowl^^ cooled his palate while he reflected. 
To himself he said, what’s he on? Cavorting round 

the outside branches of some deep main? ” Then he replied, 
“No, sir; not a bit. Was I sharp I’d never been on this 
here lay; — running this Clover-Leaf in the teeth of wind 
and tide; — beating my way against trade-winds, and not 
the first talent for a beat.” 

“ Come, that’s good,” said Gridl}'. “ I don’t say you are 
on a better laj-'. Nor 1 don’t sa}’ that row of bottles is a 
blind. All I do s^y is, I write 3*011 down a dev’lish sharp 
one. See here, Flinteye ! You’ve been a handsome blade, 
in your day, — a regular lad3*-killer. I could see it with half 
an C3"e.” 

The Old Bummer’s beaming visage grew more radiant. 

Terrible, terrible.,’' he assented, with a rapid play of the 
fingers, as if counting a string of beads. “ Seventeen, eigh- 
teen, nineteen, — and sharp you are, Mr. Gridly, or you 
would never guessed it. Number seventeen was uncommon 
hard to manage. Yes, I should rather think I was a bit 
sprightly in my palmy days. That’s the lay I was cut out for. 


PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


189 


I ha'l ought to follied that vocatiou, Mr. Gridl}', I’d ought to 
foliied it. It ain’t no vanity to say I was powerful at break- 
ing the female heart ; ■— ’twas a nat’ral gift, you see ; — ’twas 
horn in me. I don’t deny it, — I always was a trifle bent 
that way. Bless the little beauties ! They liked me none 
the less for being naughty. The more I leaned to’ards the 
gay Lo-Phario, the more did I shine. Methought then, and 
methink still, they love to have their little, precious hearts 
fractured by a gay Lo-Phario. Ah ! yes ; that’s the lay I’d 
ought to follied.” 

Mr. Flinteye heaved a regretful sigh, which was was not 
all a sigh, by reason of a contentious hiccough, and proceeded 
to mix two hot ones. “ Mr. Gridly,” said he, “ I give you a 
toaster.” 

Gridly was unusually patient. “All right; jog on!” he 
returned. 

The Old Bummer raised his glass and said, “ Here’s to 
them fragile darlings ; though lost to sight, to mem’ry dear.” 

“Drink hearty!” cried Gridly, and both drained their 
glasses. Mr. Flinte3"e then returned to his seat and to his 
discourse. 

“Them was my halshon days,” said he; — “when I was 
a gay Lo-Phario. Nothing to do but ramble from bower to 
bower, a-fracturing and a-rupturing of the female heart ; not 
a fear, except them halshon days wouldn’t last. Ah ! Mr. 
Gridly, them was the days when Flinteye was in his prime.” 

Whereupon Gridly suggested, “ Flinteye, them days might 
come back. I know there’s better faces than yours, and 
younger ones, but, take }"ou in a lump, face and figure to- 
gether, you are what I call a striking-looking man. Take 
you lumping I say, and 3^ou cut a very tol-lol appearance, 
in another age you’d been a troubadour.” 

“ The nighest I ever come to it,” returned the Old Bummer, 
rising to display his figure, “ was the time I thought I’d tuim 
stevedore. But it fell through. Now, as to this face and 
figger, Mr. Gridly, I believe you ain’t far off the track. In 
them da3’S I’d said I own the soft impeachment. ’Twas my 
figger what I travelled on. This here article, what you now 
see, ain’t no figger. Once it was, though. Chimes the query, 
was there ever any witnesses? Chants the answer, yes, that 
wayward band of fragile darlings. Now, take this face ! It’s 


190 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


what you might call over-ripe, seeing how its color trenches 
nigh onto the purple, with taking of too much water. In them 
times this here rub}^ nose sported not a single garnet. Now 
it’s what you might call full-jewelled.” 

“But them eyes hain’t lost their shine,” said Gridly, “ no 
more’n 3^ou’ve lost the trick of handling ’em. Fact is, you 
don’t know your own points ; — that’s what’s the matter with 
you.” 

“Once I had a eye,” replied the Old Bummer. “Two 
of ’em; — real sparklers; — dead-shots on the female heart. 
But I wasn’t vain of ’em, ’cause they was likewa^’s a gift. 
I’ve heard tell how, when I was a infant, I’d lay, imbibing 
of m3' nourishment, and blink my nurse into fidgets. All 
the old ladies said most p’obabl3' I’d never live to grow up ; 
but, if I did, I’d be a wicked one ; and in that last observa- 
tion, methink they was right; — I alwa3's found the female 
heart could never stand that eye. But them days is fled and 
gone, Mr. Gridly, fled and gone.” 

“ You’re too modest,” said Gridly ; “ that’s all the trouble 
with 3"ou.” 

“ Prehaps I be, Mr. Gridly,” replied the other. “ But, if 
I be so, I must ketehed it of you. It’s a complaint foreign 
to my system. When I was a-tra veiling on 1113^ Agger, I 
wasn’t by' no means celebrated for that there blemish. Of 
the two, methink I was a little bent the other way.” 

“ He must ketehed it of me ! ” exclaimed Gridly, with his 
odious, hissing laugh. “ A dev’lish bright speech ! Now, 
Flinteye, I couldn’t swear y'ou’re the exact party to 
steal awa3' the wits of a young miss. Nothing personal, 
you know, but I don’t call 3'ou quite the card for that 
game. You don’t scramble 3'our hair, nor part it in the 
middle ; nor 3'ou don’t look as if y'ou’d just been raised out 
of a bam-box, and w^as waiting to be put back again. You 
couldn’t gabble fast enough, nor 3’our brain don’t run on 
dancing — ” 

“Easy now!” interposed Mr. Flintey^e. “How do you 
know my brain don’t run on dancing? I’ve seen the time 
’twas my delight to play the light fantastic toe. Yes, I 
have seen that time ; and I don’t give in y'et, to old or 
young. Wait till I call the music; I’ll give you a sample 
of the old man’s pin-work.” 


PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


191 


Mr. Flinteye called to the Brand from the foot of the 
stairs. 

“ Yeerp ! Yeerp ! ” answered a shrill voice, and the next 
moment tlie Brand appeared in the bar-room. 

“ Bubber,” said Mr. Flinteye,” “ strike up the music. I’ll 
show how the Old Gentleman used to j’iue in the mazy 
dance ! ” 

“ With them corn-cribs on?” inquired the Brand, 
zey ! You bet!” 

“ Don’t trouble 3'ourself about the corn-cribs,” Mr. Flint- 
eye sharply returned. “ Start your whistle, and spat the 
time ; meanwhile keep one e^'e on the Old Gentleman’s 
pins for new touches ! ” 

“ Here’s the tune,” cried the Brand — 

“ ‘ I danced to a gal with a hole in her stockin’, 

An’ her heel kep’ a-rockih’, 

An’ her heel kep’ a-rockin’ down so.* 

When I get where it saj^s ‘ Down so,’ you must come 
down good an’ solid, to show how it wos her heel kep’ a- 
rockin’.” 

Mr. Flinteye mixed two warmers, and set them on the 
table, with the' injunction, “ Let ’em mull, Mr. Gridly ; let 
’em stand an’ mull I ” He then tucked his trousers firmly 
into his boots. The Brand laid off his coat, stationed him- 
self in one corner, and stooped enough to bring both knees 
within easy reach. 

“ Now, remember ! ” said -he, “when I come round to 
where her heel kep’ a-rockin’ — ” 

“Here! here!” interposed Mr. Flinteye. “Nevermind 
about that ; don’t set up for the Old Gentleman’s dancing- 
master ! You peg away on the music ! ” 

At the word the Brand pegged awa^’, and, with a nod to 
his guest, the Old Bummer showed how he used to join in an 
amazing dance. It seemed as if the halcyon days had 
already come back to Mr. Flinteye, as, with head thrown 
far back and arms dangling like empty sleeves, he coasted 
round the mop-boards, hopped up and down the room, and, 
in a cloud of sawdust, gyrated around the table where Gridly 
sat. But the music gradually’ changed to a hoarse bellows- 
sound, and the spatting began to intermit. 


192 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Couldn’t help it ! ” declared the Brand, as the dancer came 
to a sudden stop. “Got my eye too far out on the corn- 
cribs.” 

“ You done very well,” replied his master. “ Now scud ! ” 
The Brand disappeared. 

“Prehaps you notice,” said Mr. Flinteye, “3^ou was a 
trifle off your journals, in planting down the opinion I 
couldn’t dance.” 

Gridly was inclining more and more to the belief that the 
dancer was a dunce. 

“ Yes,” said he, “I see I was. You can hop like a frog. 
But we was talking about 3’oung ladies. It isn’t merely 
knowing how to dance that makes headway" with ’em ; it’s 
having dayice-on-i\\e,-hrain. Then, another thing — you ain’t 
artijicial. That’s the word. You ain’t artificial enough to 
suit a nice 3'Oung lad3’. Still, with that eye and that figure, 
among oldish parties, and especially with that pocketbook 
well filled, them aforesaid halc3'^on days might roll round 
once more.” 

“ You’re right,” the Old Bummer sadly returned. “ Time 
was when young Flinteye was the artificialest of the artific- 
ial, and the ga3’est of the rampant gay. But them da3's is 
fled and gone ; — j’ined to the Irrevocable Past.” 

“ But the oldish parties,” urged Gridly, with singular per- 
sistence. “ What would 3'OU say to an oldish party?” 

The Old Bummer drew himself up with a look of severe 
rebuke. 

“Mr. Gridl3" ! ” he exclaimed, “how can you ask? 
Never would Mr. Flinteye mention to a third party what he 
would say to any femyunine party, old or young. There’s 3^et 
left in his bosom a remnant of honor, methink.’* 

“ Oh, h — 1!” retorted Gridly. “Gabble and gammon! 
That’s the way men talk. Did you ever know one that 
wasn’t a liar? You’d be bragging about it all over the coun- 
tr3' , in less than a week. But I don’t care what the d — I 
you’d say to her. I mean how do 3’ou suppose you’d get 
along with an oldish party ; what luck do you think you’d 
have?” 

“ Oh, 3'es ; that indeed,” said Mr. Flinteye. “ A different 
query ; one as makes no breach in the honor department. 
What I think is this: the history of that little campaign 


PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT 


19i 


would be simyular to the story of the candle and the moth. 
Now, there was number eleven, — verging along quite close 
to middle life, and, prehaps, a trifle over the line. But age 
couldn’t save her. She stra^’ed within reach of Mr. Flint - 
eye’s optic, and added another flower to his bouquet. Of 
course, m3’ plan would vary as the party varied ; two to oik* 
she’d have a weakness for bitters. There, 3"OU see, talk 
would be eas}’, and flow free as the liquid. I’d open a bottle, 
and tell her ’twas one I had smudgilled over the sea for her 
own pretty palate.” 

Pretty palate!'' cried Gridly. “ Oh, good Lord ! But 
go on ; I suppose an}^ of them would swallow even that.” 

“Well, when we got nipping away,” resumed Flinte3’^e, 
“ I’d ripple out the sentyument no sperrits never tasted like’ 
them. P’obabl3’ she see what I was driving at, ’cause the3^’ve 
got a quick eye on the trail of a compliment, and, by wa}' of a 
starter, she’d ask what made me think so ; — looking, mean- 
while, sweeter than any angel ever dared to look. Would I 
falter? Not one falter. Bold and free I’d plump it out, 
because they was smiled on b}’ the Sperrit o’ Beaut3’ ; and, 
meanwhile, mind you, that left eye would not forget its 
cunning.” 

“Well, I swear!” exclaimed Gridly. “But, then, 
they’re simple enough for anything. Jog along! ” 

“ Three to one she’d be a rugged-looker,” continued the 
Old Bummer. “Them mature parties, 3^^011 know, is apt to 
look rather tempest-tossed. In that case, I’d let her know I 
didn’t care a pin for faces, but Agger was where I was sinful 
weak. Bold and free again, I’d plump it out, though her 
face was most divine, far diviner was her Agger ; ’cause it’s 
on their Agger where I’ve gen’13^ found ’em most vulnerable. 
You ma3’ nail it down for a sure thing, and spike it there, the 
ruggeder they be in the face, the more vulnerable be they on 
their Agger.” 

“Well, I swear!" repeated Gridly. “ Flinteye, 3’ou’re a 
comical devil ; but you’ve got the main points down Ane. Look 
here, though ; suppose 3’our said party was timid and shy?” 

“To a beginner,” said Mr. Flinte3’e, “those kind of 
qualyuties would be a pull-back. Not to a veteran. But, 
when they’re verging along pretty well, the3' ain’t apt to be 
outrageous shy ; like ways not timid, any to speak of.” 


194 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Gridly warmed his stomach a little more, while the other 
made a vain effort to cool his, and again his strident voice 
sounded as if he were filing an iron tongue across his thin, 
brazen lips. 

‘‘Flinteye,” said he, “I take you for a man of busi- 
ness, — like m3^self, — in for making money. When 3’ou see 
a job where you can turn a snug penn3", you’re ready to take 
hold, — especiall3' if said job is a favor to a friend.” 

Mr. Flinteye pondered these remarks a moment, sa3dng to 
himself, “ Now we’re coming to it. He’s warming to his 
work. Going to invite me on some lay.” 

His answer was deliberate. 

“ Mr. Gridly,” said he, “I see you’ve got a speculation 
on hand where 3'ou want a pardner. Crack awa3' at the 
subject, — open her up a little more ! ” 

‘‘ That won’t take long,” replied Gridl3^ “ I’m the party 
that’s got said job ; 3"ou’re the party for my partner ; said 
snug little penny aforesaid, is one hundred good, solid 
dollars, cash down. And, if 3^011 take said job, them halc3’on 
days aforesaid will come back ; it’s in that line.” 

Mr. Flinteye came it several times, veiy thoughtfully, with 
alternate eyes. Then he said, “ Oh ! I see, now. Some fair 
one you want me to captivate for you. Yes, y-es ; that’s 
why you was leading out onto that halshon business. I see 
it, now. Your course of true love don’t run smooth. You 
want a more experienced hand to go ahead and pave the wa3% 
like. P’obably she’s a difficult bird. Mr. Gridly, who’s the 
victim ? ” 

“ To go ahead and pave the way ! ” echoed Gridly, with a 
burst of scorn. “ Don't be a blasted idiot ! ” 

“ I’ll try not to,” the Old Bummer blandly replied. “ I 
merrily thought it polite to assimyulate to my comp’ny ; that 
Avas all.” 

“ I’m going to be confidential,” said Gridly, and, while the 
Old Bummer came it, right and left, in a wa3^ that invited the 
most unshaken trust, he continued : ‘‘ You know, now, what 
style of job it is, or near enough, an3diow. Will you under- 
take it? That’s all I want to know.” 

The other rose, his left hand clasping his tumbler, and his 
right dodging at unseen obstacles until it settled upon the 
palm of his guest. 


PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


195 


“Mr. Gridly,” said he, ‘^by the sacred honor of Mr. 
Flinteye, I will and do ! Now, who’s the party?” 

Gridly looked around, as if to assure himself that they 
were alone. Then, fastening his gaze on his host, he said, 
“ Flinteye, that party is my 8nib.” 

“Your Snib ! ” cried the Old Bummer, in sudden amaze- 
ment. “ What 3’ou mean? You say you’ll give me a hun- 
dred dollars to — to — make love to 3'our wife! You’re a 
rare bird, Mr. Gridl3^, and a deep one, — too deep for me. 
With you m3' sounding-line can’t touch bottom. That’s the 
very last lay I’d ever thought a man would want a pardner on.” 

“ He-he I ” laughed Gridly. “ He-he ! ” 

Fresh pendulums were swinging beneath his chin. He- 
looked furtivel3’^ around again. With a low, mean chuckle, 
and in that hateful, brazen voice, he explained, “A bill, 
Flinteye, a bill 1 ” 

Then the pendulums fell upon his lap, and a little, sluggish 
rivulet found its course over beard and bosom. 

“He-he! A bill, — a pill!'' he chuckled again, 
hissing, and shaking, and bloating himself with infernal 
glee. So detestable a creature he looked, so vile and venom- 
ous, that even the placid Old Bummer was ruffled by a desire 
to cast him out, as some noxious reptile. But no trace of 
such impulse appeared on Flinteye’s red, tranquil features. 
He uttered a prolonged whistle, and 'came it, comprehen- 
sively, with his eyes. His comment was, “ Certingl3', 
c-ertingly ; a bill! What a lay! Say, Mr. Gridh', what 
time I’ve been on this here revolving ball, I never seen no 
winnin’ smile like 3’oiir’n. It’s what 3'ou might call a deep 
smile ; and so it ought to be. Deep is the bird as smiles it.” 

Gridly had hissed away his breath, so amused was he at 
the astonishment of the simple-minded Old Bummer. Re- 
covering, he resumed, “ I said I was going to be confiden- 
tial. I want a bill of divorce ; and for said bill I’m ready 
to pa3" that snug little sum aforesaid, in good, round dol- 
lars. You’re the friend to help get said bill, and you’re the 
party to turn said sum. Wow, I guess it’s tol-lol plain, ain’t 
it, how a man ma3^ want a partner on that aforesaid la3'?” 

Applauding himself with another hiss, he continued, “ I’ve 
been chained to that old, rickety Snib long as I can stand 
it, and I’m tired waiting for her to peg out. It’s time 


196 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


wasted. She’s tougher than a boot-jack. Devilish fool I 
was, — tying myself down for life to that old, barren bunch 
of bones ! I suppose I was in love. That’s what it’s called, 
— being in love. Being s. jackass! Being in love! Oh, 
h — 1! Words are nowhere. It’s the only time Old Jerry 
ever went back on me, and now he’s got to help me out, for 
out I’m bound to come. It makes me so cursed mad to see 
her moping round, I feel like a devil. She prays, too, d — n 
her skin ! She don’t even spunk up, any more ; tries to 
gammon me by looking all-fired patient and forgiving ; and 
that I can’t stand, nohow. But I said I’d be confidential. 
So, here’s the nub. Some day I’m going to be worth 
mone}^ and I don’t want to leave it to whatever cats and 
dogs happen along. You understand. I want an heir.” 

Sir. Flinteye gave no sign of the emotions inspired by his 
guest. His countenance was as serene as a cloudless sky. 

“ Certingly, Mr. Gridly,” he soothingly assented. “ Most 
certingly and posyutively you do.” 

With a savage sneer, Gridly resumed, “ Many heirs that 
old crumpled rag will bring me ! Lord knows I’ve waited 
for ’em ! But have I seen ’em, yet? Has anybody seen ’em? 
No. 1 say that Snib has got to get out my den and sail her 
own boat. You may have her or the devil may, for all I 
care, but go she shall. I’ll get a new one, and try my luck 
again. Come, now, I’ve showed the points, and you see the 
tactics ! What do you say to ’em?” 

Mr. Flinte 3 ^e immediatel}^ delivered a courteous bow to the 
right, and another to the left, with a bland smile and a 
respectful, “Good-evening, Points! Happy to meet 3 "ou, 
Tactics ! ” 

Gridly stared at him as at one fast sinking into idiocy. 

“ What the h — 1 do you mean by that? ” he demanded. 

“ Merrily a salutation,” the Old Bummer explained. 
“ New acquaintances, both, to Mr. Flinteye. That’s how I 
done it in m 3 ^ halshon days.” 

“ Well,” said Gridly, “ if you’re through that performance 
tell me what 3 ^ou think.” 

“ Of course I now see what you’re arter,” returned Mr. 
Flinteye, “ and likeways 3 ^our tactics. I believe 3 ^ou hinted 
they was the tactics of a old Mr. Jerry. If so, they does 
him credit, — as a deep one. Whether they does him any 


PETER ORIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


197 • 


other credit, prehaps they does, and prehaps not. I may 
look at the subject with two separate eyes, — with an eye 
like most folks would put on it, or with an eye to business. 
In the former case, I should keep still ; shouldn’t say any- 
thing. No language would be adyuquate. In them halshon 
da3's I’d said ’twas — but, never mind ! Them halshon days 
is fled and gone, and business is business. Mr. Gridly, I 
don’t care to hazard no opinion onto it. I’ll let that slide 
and take the contract. Likeways, soon as convenient, will 
I take that hundred.” 

“ Yes, when your work is finished,” said Gridly. ‘‘ When 
I see said bill in m}^ pocket, and said Snib out my Den, 
then 3'Ou’ll take your aforesaid hundred. Business is busi- 
ness. When your contract’s done, 3’ou take 3^our pay.” 

“ Easy now ! ” returned the other. “ Prehaps 3’ou’ve no- 
ticed, now and then, a business-man as takes his hundred 
soon as he can strike it. Mr. Flinte3’e leads that crowd. 
Branch second. Travelling expenses. Look what I’ve got 
to la3^ out there ! Nobody ever travelled that road without 
putting down the cash, in some shape or other. If he tried it 
he didn’t get far. Be I going to invest my capital on .it? 
No, sir ; not a capital. Come down with a ten or a twent3", 
Mr. Gridly, and I’ll begin to polish up for that there lay ! 
Otherwa3*s, I don’t budge a peg.” 

“ You’re a comical cuss. I’ll swear,” said Gridly, handing 
over several bank-notes. “ Better than a whole thea3qer. 
With all your long-winded tomfoolery, though, you know your 
business.” 

Mr. Flinteye was inspecting the notes. One he handed 
back without remark, but, as he did so, his left eye came it 
veiy distrustfully. 

“ What’s the matter? ” Gridly demanded. 

“Too shagg3%” replied the other. “ P’obably good, but 
too much mut3'ulated.” 

“ What’s the odds?” rejoined Gridly. “ It’s good.” 

“ Now, there ain’t no call for a rupture about that bill,” 
returned the Old Bummer. “ Undoubtably it’s good, but it 
ain’t a safe one for Mr. Flintey^e. Was I to pick up that 
there bill in the morning, afore I’d shipped my reg’lars, what 
would become of it? Ruined, sir, in no time ; fled and gone 
into the Irrevocable just as sure as them halshon days. 


198 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Once I rattled one to ribbons afore I could drop it. Since 
then, IVe kept one eye out for mutjmlated bills.” 

“ The less a man knows,” remarked Gridly, as he handed 
over another note, “ the more he wants his own wa}'. The 
more jackass there is in him, the more obstinate he is.” 

“ The jackass is a bird I’m not posted on,” replied Mr. 
Flinteye, depositing the note in his pocket. “I don’t know 
but one, — like them tactics, a modern acquaintance. But 
I’ll back 5"Our opinion on ’em, Mr. Gridl}'. Now, to come 
back to our main : you may consider your lady already cap- 
tured, although she may not be exactly so at the present 
moment. That business will be nothing but play for Mr. 
Flinteye.” 

“Well, then,” said Gridly, “ some evening when I’m to 
home 3^ou’d better drop in, in a neighborh" wa}^ Friend of 
the famil}’, you know. He-he ! I ain’t afraid but the tac- 
tics will work. All 3'ou’ve got to do is to get friendl}^ in the 
Den and I’ll find the witnesses. We’ll rush it through on a 
lightning express.” 

“ Don’t 3'ou be in no hurry ! ” returned the Old Bummer. 
“ It’s a road as must be trod with care. Now, j’ou’ve got as 
neat a put-up job as ever I seen, — one as couldn’t been set 
up b}' nobod}' but yourself or your old friend, Mr. Jeremiah. 
But listen to me I It’s a track where you might get upset, if 
you was to start too rapid. Do Mr. Flinteye know the cor- 
rect speed ? Methink he do. Trips the query, why ? Trots 
the answer, it’s a road he’s often travelled. Here’s about the 
way that lucky old sinner would begin. He would ^polish 
both frame and garb, investing all needful time and capital. 
Then out he’d go for to reckernorter. Afore that Den he’d 
stroll, looking very idle and roving-like, till he spotted his 
little temptation-piece at the window. The play of his figger 
would be modest but ambitious; and, meanwhile, mind you, 
would his features wear a wanton smile. Then he’d amble 
back to the Clover-Leaf to reflect. The second time he ram- 
bled forth, if he seen her at the window, he would find it 
very hard to turn away his eyes, and very wicked would he 
play his figger. The motions of his frame would indyucate 
that he’d seen something surpassing lovely, but far out of 
reach, as he played himself back to re-reflect ; and that time 
it would be tansy and gin — a more ambitious -drink. Once 


PETER GRIDLY MAKES A CONTRACT. 


199 


more would he amble and ramble past ; and, if he seen her 
there again, he’d sa}^ “See here, Flinte^^e ! That’s three 
times, hand running ; your track is smooth. Now or never, 
play your figger ! Would I play it? Booms the answer, me- 
think I would. Arter that, Mr. Gridly, ’twould be only a 
question of da3’s. The very first time you was out, I should 
drop in, in a neighborl}’ way ; and, having dropped, p’oba- 
bl}' I should soon reach the spot I had in mind, when 1 said 
never would Mr. Flinteye mention to a third party what he 
would sa}^ to a fem^mnine party.” 

“Yes, I guess 3’ou would,” sneered Gridl}^, “ if you lived 
through all them fine jiggamarees. But I don’t care what 
you do. Pla^" your figger or play h — 1, if you want to. One. 
thing I know : if you get in there a few times, the tactics 
will work.” 

“ But, returning to the fork,” resumed Mr. Flinteye, 
“ and follying out the other branch, I might not spot her 
at the window the tiiird time. Then the entering wedge 
would be a business call, when you was at home. Of course 
there’ll have to be more or less branching out and varying, 
according as j^our ladv' branches and varies. But you can 
set down what I’ve said as about the main method I shall 
folly on the start. Be them agurs otf your interior yet, Mr. 
Gridly?” 

Whether with ridicule of Mr. Flinteye’s programme, or 
with gleeful certainty that his scheme would prosper, Gridly" 
was hissing himself livid. 

“Speaking o’ that same winnin’ smile,” remarked Mr. 
Flinteye, “I’ve seen some terrible nasty smiling in my da3\ 
Nothing personal, Mr. Gridly, but, for unmityugated nasty., 
that there winnin’ smile o’ 3’our’n do beat ’em all. If j^ou 
take m\' advice 3’ou’ll break off of it afore ever you start out 
to capture Snib number two. ’Twouldn’t make no difference 
how skilful you played your figger. If the object o’ 3’our affec- 
tion once see you smile, 3"our little dish would be upset. Got 
3’our eye on any victim, Mr. Gridly, for Snib number two?” 

“ That’s my business,” was Gridly’s repl3^ 

“ Of course,” rejoined the Old Bummer. “ But I don’t 
see no call to flare up. I merrily asked in case you might 
want me to pave the way. It’s a service I would be proud 
to perform.” 


200 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ I tell you 'one thing/’ returned Gridly. “ If 3^011 don’t 
slack up on 3"Our rum you won’t have an3" brains at all, in 
six months. Now, ask me no questions and I’ll tell 3"Ou no 
lies. You know 3'our job. Jog along with it as per your 
contract, and don’t gabble.” 

Mr. Flinteye cast a glance of mild reproach on his visitor 
and inquired, “ Do I look like a gab3mleer, or a man as 
would ruin his chance for a hundred? No, sir. Barks the 
answer, Mr. Flinte3’e don’t methink he do.” 

Gridly rose to depart. “Now, Flinte3^e,” said he, “this 
motter is in your hands ; choose your own time and tactics ! 
I picked you out because I wrote you down the right party 
for the work. So, look sharp and keep mum.” 

With that laconic injunction, Gridly started for his Den, 
leaving the Old Bummer tipped back in his chair, one foot 
resting on the table and a fresh cooler dodging at his mouth. 

“Didn’t get him wet enough,” said Mr. Flinteye, gazing 
up to the ceiling in deep thought. “ Couldn’t do it. Takes 
a long time to find out what sort o* cla}' a man’s made of. 
Was I to hazard my opinion on his frame, I should sa3' 
mud, — with a veiy bad reptyle a-dwelling inside; one as’ll 
work that there mud-pile for his own racket ; p’obably one 
of Old Jerry’s brood. Rough on the Snib, I should sa}^, 
with a reptyle like that stinging of her ever}^ dsLj. He’s 
going to be worth money, and turn off that wife and marry 
another. Undoubtably he can. Find one in twent3^-four 
hours, I suppose. It do beat all how they’ll pair with toads, 
vipers, devils, anything for the sake of being married. Oh! 
yes ; veiy smooth and easy he’^s marked his crooked route, 
lint what’ll Mr. Flinteye be doing of? Keeping both e3’es 
out, and learning of tactics. Meanwhile, Old Gentleman, 
you can’t do a better thing than take 3'our nightcap and 
bunk in.” 

Mr. Flinteye’s nightcap was not made of any textile fab- 
ric, nor was it worn upon his head, but inside his stomach. 
Having applied it, he fastened the door, and stretched him- 
self upon his cot under the bar-room counter. 


MR. FLINT EYE RECONNOITRES. 


201 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MR. FLINTEYE POLISHES UP AND RECONNOITRES. 

Gray morning light crept down over the blank brick walls 
that towered above the Clover-Leaf, and through small, 
dingy windows, upon 'the Brand. Awaking from sound 
slumber, he sat upon the lounge, scanning the dim apart- 
ment. 

“ It beats a ha3^mow,” said he, “ as much as that beats 
nothing. Now a haymow may be just the roost for a small, 
pious cove ; but it ain’t the spot for a little bummer. I expect 
I wosn’t built for a pious cove. If I wos, why ain’t I down 
in them ha3'-seeds this wery minute? Here’s the ga3’est nest 
I ever lit on. No crickets kicking at 3’our nose, nor spiders 
playing tag round 3"our neck. No wosp sailing round neither, 
with his legs hanging down awful low, all tangled together, 
an’ both eyes out for a place to drive his stinger in. Hit at 
him, if you dare ! Then he just lets you have it, an’ you 
don’t want no more of his medsun. One taste is enough. 
Weiy bad medsun. An’, then, for another thing: them new 
clo’es. Ga3^ pants, ga3" vest, gay coat. Stockin’s, shoes, 
collars; — ever3"thing nobb3\ The first time I wos ever 
dressed up in all 1113^ life. When 3'ou come to deacons an’ 
old bummers, I say go ’wa}' with 3'our deacons. Give me 
old bummers, every time ! When I wos learning v;erses, 
’twos duds. Now I’ve quit ’em, it’s good clo’es. Might3' few 
catechisms ’round this burrow, I bet. If the3' is one. I’ll 
chuck it to Bally hack. I’m done with ’em, — shook ’em for 
good. Now we’ll see if luck don’t come. I only wish’t he 
could seen me setting on that plant, an’ Mr. Flinte3'e, hum- 
ming like a saw-mill, ready to hook into him on the word. 
I’ll bet, if he laid his claws on me, my boss would kick him 
into fits. I’d sing out, ‘ Look here, 3"ou old, goaty lummox ! 
here’s that wery child o’ Satan wot you trained up, an’ 
belted, an goggled, an’ fired pra3’ers at, when he’d a plague3^ 
sight ruther had 3’ou fire stones, — that same firebrand o’ 


202 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


sin wot 3’on made so terrible mean an’ mis’rable ; wot j-ou 
stunted out of his growth, an’ wore out, an’ drived to be a 
bummer, I wos like a little cove wot found hisself, first he 
knowed, a-drownding in the mill-pond, an’ 3^011 wos in a 
boat. Now, that little feller never knowed how he come 
there, but he knowed mighty well he’d got to get aboard or 
he wos gone. So, he fluked it along, the best he could, till 
he got a hold ; an’ there he stuck, tight as a bloodsucker, his 
lips just out o’ water, waiting to ketch his breath afore he 
crawled in. He turned his lanterns up, kind o’ begging like, 
but he seen 3’ou lifting up a oar. So, he froze on to that 
stern an’ bobbed up an’ down, tr3dng to dodge. But you 
kep’ tucking on the oar till he had to unhook an’ go under. 
He come up again, though, wery^ tired an’ chilly — womiting 
water like a pump. Then he heard you singing, out the 
hymn-book,* ‘ Oh, do not be discouraged ! ’ an’ it sounded 
like you meant it for true. He didn’t exactly know y’ou was 
baiting of him up ; but he hadn’t got hold again afore he 
found out. That’s how it wos. Every time he got hold you 
knocked him off, an’ under he went. Every time he come up 
he was tireder an’ chillier, until he growed numb-like, an’ 
begin to think the best thing was to stay under. But, just 
then, he heard a little angel wot loved him sing out not to 
give up. Ilis breath wos wery near gone, but he struck out 
again, an’ hooked on once more. That time he hung like 
Purp to a bone ; but ’twosn’t no use. Down come that oar 
on his little talons, an’ he bubbled under for good. Every'- 
body b’lieved the jig wos up, with that young child o’ Satan ; 
an’ p’r’aps you thought you’d got him where his stiff neck 
would be wery’ limber. But you was gummed. That little 
cove wasn’t no bait for lamprey-eels. He riz up, in a happy 
land, far, far away ; — in this here Clower-Leaf. Here’s all 
the Shinin’ Shore he wants. An’ here’s just where he’s 
bound to stick. H’ist him off, if y’ou can ! ’ 

“That’s how I’d like to talk. I wouldn’t be afraid. Mr. 
Flintey’e would tackle him, if he tried the burning game ; I 
know he would. Then I’d say, ‘ You see this hei‘e plant wot 
I’m setting on his stummik, half meller? ’Tain’t long since 
he wos spry as y’ou. But he went off the hooks. Not 
more’ll two days wos he planted, when he wos dug up, 
bagged, an’ fetched to this here Clower-Leaf. One more 


MR. FLINTEYE RECONNOITRES. 


203 


trip he’ll have, an’ that’ll be his last. Them docties will use 
him wery rough. Wol, just so you. Some day you’ll be 
rolling up your lanterns, an’ they’ll get stuck fast. Then 
Marthy will go toddling along, behind the hearse, an’ you’ll 
be planted. Think you’ve got a sure thing, don’t you? 
But the Little Bummer bets not. Some night he’ll sneak 
into that bone-yard, with his spade an’ bag, — like the song 
says, ‘ With his loo-rul, an’ his loo-riil.’ If it’s frosty he’il 
add a peckaxe. Wot you s’pose he’il be up to,’ in that bone- 
yard? P’r’aps I didn’t tell you he had a spade an’ i)ag. 
P’r’aps he won’t be on the dig. Maybe I wouldn’t like to 
bet 3"OU something on that. Wot’ll he dig? Artichokes? 
Wegetables? I bet not. That hole will be filled up an’ 
turfted over, smoov an’ clean, like it wos afore. Then that 
child o’ Satan will draw his bag over wot he’s dug, an’ him 
an’ his boss will toddle with it, all four eyes out. The next 
night, wery likely, they’ll tote that bag into this Glower- 
Leaf, an’ dump it onto this wery table. Wot you think 
they’ll dump? Artichokes? Wegetables? Not much. 
Come now, bet ! IC^just as easy. Give it up? Wol, here’s 
the bo}^ for betting, — he can’t be beat at it. He bets they’ll 
dump you^ out that bag. There’s a gam.e you never thought 
of, when you wos so busy a-pounding an’ a-stunting of that 
little cove. You never b’lieved the time would come he’d 
3-erk you round like a old gone-in mussrat. But I’d bet on 
it. I bet I dig 3'ou yet, an’ tote you, an’ dump you on this 
wery board, and set on your stummik, mellerer than punk. 
I’ll fill 3'our crop plumb full of ashes, too, like 3’ou done to 
me.’ 

• “ That’s the sort o’ chin-music I’d like to give him. Most 
likely^ he’d haul off to land a stunner behind m3' ear. Then 
in would wade Mr. Flinteye, an’ flax him out. How gay 
’twould be! — the Old Bummer’s fins playing on his lan- 
terns, an’ the Young Bummer’s boots working behind. I’d 
hop up this wa3^” 

The Brand leaped to bis feet, transported by the scene he 
had conjured up, and delivered savage kicks upon some 
invisible foe. He was interrupted, however, by' the voice of 
Mr. Flintey'e calling him. Accordingly, he descended to a 
small apartment back of the bar-room, which served for a 
kitchen. The coffee was already boiling on the stove, two 


204 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


fishes were broiling before the grate, and some potatoes were 
baking in the oven. Upon a bench before the stove sat Mr. 
Flinteye, his right hand stirring the air with a fork. 

“ You look very rosy,” said the Old Bummer. “ I thought I 
heard you trying them new touches in the mazy. Better lot 
’em alone, Bubber. It’s very wearing and tearing on the 
brain, to tussle with a branch where you can’t make no head- 
way. Now, take theology — ” 

“I’d ruther not,” protested the Brand. “I’ve took too 
much of it long ago. I’d ruther take herrings. If I’d only 
had less ’ology an’ more herrings, p’r’aps I wouldn’t been so 
awful thin an’ poor. I knowed all the time I shouldn’t ever get 
fat on it. Anybody could see ’twos stunting me. First off, 
it scared me out o’ two years’ growth. Next off, them fast- 
days wos too rapid. They rolled round wery reg’lar. , I 
don’t b’lieve in ’em, anywa}', — not for lean coves, I don’t. 
Wot’s the good of setting up a fast day, I’d like to know, 
wheyi youWe on it all the time? Purp kep’ ’em, too. Acorns 
wos wery filling ; but he wouldn’t touch ’em. I- expect he 
couldn’t stand the stummik-ache. Now I’m sorry 1 didn’t 
hook things for him.” 

“ Well, don’t hook nothing round here,” interposed Mr. 
Flinteye; “nor don’t ever try to beat the Old Gentleman 
out of anything ! Remember that ! ” 

“ Nor I never shall,” returned the Brand. “ I don’t b’lieve 
in hooking an’ beating. Don’t you know wot I told you 
about little Dabid, tuning of it up afore King Sauld ? Wol, 
arter Sauld had got done kinging of it, Dabid growed up to 
be king, an’ he had a boy with wery shagg}' hair. His 
name wos Abs’lom. I disremember just exactly how ’twos, 
but, an3’how, Abs’lom tried his best to i)eat King Dabid. 
But he couldn’t make the ripple, cos Dabid was fly, an’ kep’ 
both eyes out., I expect he’d been on it hisself, — beating 
Sauld out of the king business, — an’ he knowed the ropes.” 

“ He did, Bubber, he did,” said Mr. Flinteye. “ His was 
an able hand at various wires besides the tuneful harp. He 
was a character in his day, but let him rest ! Stick to your 
main ! ” 

“ Wol,” resumed the Brand, “Abs’lom had to mizzle. He 
wos going it, horseback, the swiftest he could, when his hair got 
tangled into a tree wot he wos diving under. Wery bad for 


MR. FLINT EYE RECONNOITRES. 


205 


Abs’lora. Mr. Horse toddled along ‘ rucker-tuck ! rucker- 
tiick ! ’ aiiMeft him bangin’. ’Twos a tight squeak with him 
just as it wos. But a cove come along with a spear, an’ seen 
he was a fair mark. So, he picked him. I bet you he never 
would picked him though, if Abs’lom had been on the ground 
where he could help hisself. That cove was a coward. He 
never had sand enough iu his crop to pick Abs’lom in fair 
light, or he never would speared him when he was stuck fast. 
But that’s all Abs’lom made trying to beat his old gen’leman. 
He wosn’t to be beat. He wos up to every move, — gum- 
games an’ all. An’ how terrible sorry he used to be, arter 
he’d pla3’ed out his games.” 

There, there ! ” exclaimed the Old Bummer, “he’s had 
his little day ; do let him rest. Our present branch is mack- 
erel ; we’ve got enough to do to tend to them.” 

“They’re a fish I never had a fair chance at,” returned the 
Brand. “ Once I lived about ten thousand miles from here, 
with a old — old — wol, I don’t exactly know wot he was. 
He used awluz to give me the head an’ neck ; not wery offen 
the rudder. He said part would stren’then part. Once I told 
him ’twos lower down where I thought I’d ought to be 
stren’thened ; ’twos in my stummik. I said p’r’aps ’twos 
mack’rel necks made me so stiff-necked ; p’r’aps they’d 
stren’thened me too much. But I’d better uv kep’ still. All 
I made wos one back o’ my ear. Another time he wos tell- 
ing how people might entertain angels unawares. I up an’ 
tohl him p’r’aps he wos entertainin’ one that \tery minute ; 
p’r’aps I wos a small angel unawares. Wol, he said the 
tail would do wery well for a small angel like me, an’ I 
had orter think more on my latter end, anyway. ^So I got 
the rudder. I knowed mighty well I didn’t want no 
stren’thenin’ round there. But wot of it? I wos glad to get 
a»iything.” 

But I notice all the time j'ou don’t say who* he was,” 
remarked Mr. Flinteye. 

“ Nor I ain’t going to,” declared the Brand. “ Don’t 3’^ou 
rememl)er you told me to block you off of it, if ever you 
worged to’ards — ” 

“Right, Bubber,” interposed the Old Bummer; “and a 
close mouth is a precious stone. The Old Gentleman is not 
the person to prod into private histoiy. Methink he hath 


20G 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


one of his o\yh. I got uncommon intyurested into that there 
rare old cliaracter you was a-dwelling on ; that was all.” 

Thereupon Mr. Fliute^’e stabbed the potatoes alid removed 
them to the table by a zigzag course, a destination which the 
fish also ultimately reached in a similar manner. 

“ Now, Bubber,” said the Old Bummer, “ you set on that 
side and me on this, and you’ll see Mr. Flinteye do the fair 
thing by his ’prentice.” 

“ P’r’aps you’d better get a reg’lar aboard afore you cut 
them fish,” suggested the apprehensive Brand. “ I’d hate 
to risk it with my arms going like a drummer.” 

Mr. Fiinteye paid no heed, but helped his apprentice 
bountifully ; and the latter fell to with keen relish. 

“ These square meals,” said he, “ is a new la}’ for me. I 
think I’m fatting up already.” , 

“The trouble with /r/m,” observed Mr. Flinteye, “was 
too much Calvinism.” 

“ With who? ” inquired the Brand. 

“ That there beautiful old character you was telling of.” 

“Too much what-ism?” inquired the Brand. 

“Calvinism, Bubber,” replied the Old Bummer, “ — a 
style of doctrine.” 

“ A-doctorin’ with terrible tough medsun, then,” declared 
the Brand. “ I don’t want any; I ain’t sick no moie. I’m 
all cured now, — nor I don’t forget the name of that medsun, 
you bet, till my dying-day. If any docty ever tries to get 
any more down me I’ll hook straight into him, — I don’t 
care if it’s my last wrassle. Here’s my medsun, — square 
meals.” 

“ Bubber, you’re getting a trifle mixed,” said Mr. Flinteye ; 
“ a little rattled, methink. It ain’t no stomach-ache ques- 
tion. Theology is where we are trenching. That there 
Calvinism is a dose for the soul.” 

“ My sould ain’t sick,” protested the Brand with inordi- 
nate haste. “ They ain’t nothing at all the matter, if people 
only let it alone ; but, even if it wos, that ain’t the castor-oil 
to cure it.” 

“ Don’t dip so wild and eager ! ” remonstrated Mr. Flint- 
eye. “ You needn’t be scared. Nobody round here’s going 
to pack any more of it into you. The Old Gentleman him- 
self thinks this Calvin business is rather overplayed. I 


MR. FIANTEYE RECONNOITRES. 


207 


was merrily going to add, it’s a powerful remyudy against 
lightness round the heart, — likewise for fever on the 
spen-its. A great cure for folks as is trenching too close 
onto the Giddy and the Gay ; sure thing on -all capers and 
gambols of the soul. Was I to hazard my opinion, I should 
call it the leading blue-pill of the soul.” 

“ Square meals is the talk for my sould,” declared the 
Brand, with positive conviction. “ Go ’way with 3^our Cal- 
winizzum an’ fetch on 3"our square wittles, every time ! My 
sperrit don’t want no pill so weiy blue.” 

“ I don’t know what you think,” returned the Old Bummer, 
“but it strikes me we’ve had enough of this soul-quacking 
business — ” 

“I bet everybody has,” struck in the Brand; “but I 
s’pose they’ve got to stand it.” 

“There 3'ou go again,” the other peevishl3' replied, 
“opening up mains without end, and diving, tail over head, 
into channels where no sinker ever 3’et touched bottom. 
Now, I won’t have it. You feed away ! It does the Old 
Gentleman good to see it, — calls back to mind them hal- 
shon days.” 

“ Cahoinizziim., Cahvinizzum., Calwinizzum,” repeated the 
Brand, driving a new peg deep into the tablet of hismemoiy ; 
“ three times one is thribs. Wot da3’s wos them, Mr. Flint- 
e3' e ? ” 

“ The da3^s when the Old Gentleman was in his prime, and 
could eat fish arter fish like the king o’ the Mokes could 
gobble plant arter plant ; when his sleep was sweet and his 
eye bright ; when he was lively as a cricket and strong as a 
giant; but them days is j’ined to the Irrevocable Past ; let 
’em rest ; you feed awa3% Bubber, while the Old Gentleman 
tends to his t’ilet ! ” 

With a piece of chamois-skin the elder bummer now 
polished a watch-guard and its companion key, while the 
younger finished his feast and cleared off the table. 

“ Kind o’ sing’lar wot he’s shinin’ of it up for,” remarked 
the Brand. The other volunteered no information, but 
patiently finished his task. Then, from an old cigar-box, — 
an ignoi)le casket for small articles of possible future utility, 
— he brought out a ruby-red brooch of ancient pattern and 
massive setting. 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


20 S 


“By Gum!” swore the wondering Brand. “There’s a 
breas’-pin for you I Is it gold, Mr. Flinteye, with a 
dimint? ” 

Without verbally committing himself, the Old Bummer en- 
deavored by a contraction of the left eye to convey the infor- 
mation that it was gold with a diamond. 

“Breathe on it,” suggested the lesser bummer. “Then 
yerk it up an’ down your leg. That will shine it gay.” 

The suggestion was adopted with the desired effect. Next, 
the Old Bummer produced a crimson scarf — a memento of 
halcyon days — which he fastened round his neck, and the 
ends of which he secured with the brooch. 

“ How gay it matches your bill ! ” cried the delighted 
Brand. 

“ Never you mind the Old Gentleman’s blemishes 1 ” re- 
turned the other. “ You just look to the gen’ral effect ! ” 

Having delivered this admonition he sought and found an 
aged silk hat, deformed by many a hillock and hollow, which 
he began to reduce to a smooth surface by numerous small 
wooden shores braced inside ; and while he was engaged 
upon this trestle-work the Brand’s thoughts wandered off to 
the only two beings he had ever loved — his schoolmate 
Phoebe and his wretched cur. 

“ When 1 seen her at the window,” he said to himself, “ I 
wish’t I dared sing out ; just to let her know I wos all right. 
Most likely she thinks I’m burnt to ashes long ago; an’ 
p’r’aps she has sometimes cried about it. It’s a gay thing 
for a little mis’rable cove wot’s awluz been h’isted out of the 
way, an’ warmed so terrible, — for a little cove wot isn’t 
used to many gay things, to think they’s somebody like that 
as will cry when he goes off the hooks. Her an’ Purp, — 
them wos the only ones as ever loved me. Now, ’twosn’t 
so sing’lar Purp loved me. He knowed mighty well we wos 
just alike. He wos a four-legged child o’ Satan, he wos, 
though he most gen’ly went on thribs. ’Twos his tail kep’ 
one hind leg off the ground ; cos it kinked up so tight. I 
done my best to cure him of it. I hung old iron onto it, tied 
knots in it, an’ strapped it under his sturamik ; but ’twosn’t 
no use. Then I drawed a lead pipe over it, an’ made him 
wear it there. No use. Next, I tied a fiddle-string to it, an’ 
hung him up, head down. Wol, he yowled awful. I tried to 


MR, FLINTEYE RECONNOITRES. 


209 


stop him with a bone ; but he played he wosn’t hungry, an* 
kep’ on yowling. Thinks I, ‘ Fr’aps you’d like to be burnt 
a little.’ So, I backed off and warmed him. But ’twosn’t no 
use ; he kep’ on, tuning of it up just the s’rillest he could. 
So, I left him spinning round, an’ striking out kind o’ desprit, 
an’ beating a hand-organ all hollow. I cried, though I 
knowed he ought to be cured. But I wos young then ; I 
didn’t know I wos giving him that Calwin-medsun. Wol, 
when I come back he’d got done s’rieking, an’ was growing 
wery stiff-necked. He wos almost a goner. I made out to 
fetch him to, but his tail kinked up bad as ever. The3" 
wosn’t but one way to do, — I had ought to cut it off.” 

“Here, Bubber,” said Mr. Flintej^e, “run your e3^e over 
the Old Gentleman, and see what 3*ou think of him.” 

Having smoothed away- the protuberances and indentations 
of his har, the Old Bummer placed it on his head and paced 
around the room, followed by' the admiring gaze of his 
apprentice. 

“ Say, Bubber ! ” he repeated, thirsting a little for a com- 
pliment. “ What 3'ou think of him now? ” 

“ Gay an’ cranky' ! ” cried the Brand. 

Whereupon, the Old Bummer threw back his shoulders and 
essayed a martial step, calling out, as he marched, “ Keep 
your eye on the Old Gentleman while he play's his figger ! ” 

“ Be he playing of it, now? ” inquired the Brand. 

“ A trifle, Bubber, methink he be.” 

The Brand thrust his hands into his pockets, and stretched 
his trousers until their breadth nearly equalled their length. 

“ Oh, ^ see him brace back!” he exclaimed. “Oh, dear, 
dear ! ” 

Then he closed his eyes as if dazzled, and spun upon one 
heel. 

“Keep your eye out,” repeated Mr. Flintey'e. “Notice 
that step ! ” 

“ Can’t do it,” vociferated the artful Brand. “ It’s too 
gay.” 

Then, coming to a halt, he said, “That’s the game I’ve 
tried to learn of a groshopper. Don’t you know how he’ll 
brace back when you i)in him? I bet they ain’t another cove 
in the world can play his figger like a groshopper. But tip 
your beaver for’ard, an’ then brace back.” 


210 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


The Old Bummer complied, and said, “ Now rim your eye 
over the Old Gentleman. How would he suit, if you was to 
look on him with a femyunine eye as was a little past 
medium, — verging, prehaps, onto the oldish? ” 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” cried the Brand, “ when I look at 3’ou I 
look with the eye of a little bummer, an’ I call you gay. 
Don’t you know about Bozarro an’ his band? That same 
piece told about something else, gay on the wing as Eden’s 
garding-bird ; an’ it sounded like that bird wos the gayest 
thing out. Wol, now, looking at 3^011 with the eye of a little 
bummer, I bet you heat that bird, all hollow. But, if I wos 
to look with a old female eye, — which I’m mighty glad I 
can’t, — I don’t know how’ twould be, — p’r’aps I should sour 
on 3’ou, an’ p’r’aps I should fall stone-dead in love.” 

“ Now, then, listen to me ! ” returned Mr. Flinteye. “ You 
set here while I’m gone ! If anybody comes for a nip, it’ll 
be a dime. Keep both 03^03 out for beats, and don’t get 
mellow. The Old Gentleman will go see how the land lays.” 

Thereupon, Mr. Flinteye went out. As he strolled past the 
Den he could see the Snib through the window, watching the 
passers-b3^ with dull interest, a spoon in one hand, and in the 
other a teacup from which, at intervals, she took liquid 
nourishment. He threw his shoulders back and assumed a 
martial bearing. Upon his features played the alluring smile 
that he had mentioned to Gridl3’’ as part of his programme, 
and in his left hand, which swung idl3', a handkerchief 
fluttered gentl3" to the tremulous motion of his arm. His 
face described a quarter-circle in the air, as towards some 
powerful lodestone, while his eyes came it seductivel3’ many 
times. Mrs. Gridly, observing him, remarked to herself, “I 
wonder whether it’s the drinkin’-paral’is or spazzums on the 
spine. Good land! Tricked out like a blessed poppet I 
He’ll be a poor, helpless creetur’ if the paral’is gets seated 
on his brains.” 

But Mr. Flinteye, perceiving that he had attracted his 
neighbor’s notice, marched on to the next corner and around 
it, while the Brand peered slyl3' from the Clover-Leaf door in 
culminating ecstasy. 

“Oh, Gum!” ejaculated the latter. “See him sag his 
head back, like a turkey globular! Oh, see him sagl I 
wish’t I knowed wot he wos up to.” 


MR. FLINTS YE RECONNOITRES. 


211 


A few moments sufficed to carry Mr. Flinteye around the 
block and bring him back to the bar-room. There he found 
his apprentice sitting upon the counter. The Brand had 
folded a sheet of brown paper into a small pamphlet, and, 
with a lead-pencil stump, was printing a new catechism 
therein. On the first page, Mr. Flinteye read, “ Quest. 
Wot is Calwinnizzum ? ” 

“Now, here Fve been,” said the Brand, “ ever since you 
went out ; setting on this counter — ” 

“Nowj don’t!” interposed the Old Bummer, with a face- 
tious twinkle of the e^^es. “ If you begin like that, you might, 
prehaps, later on, folly the wake of that there Absalom. 
You know what you said about him. You might been on 
this counter all the time, but methink I seen one eye bulging 
out the door.” 

“I take it back,” confessed the Brand. “I wos looking 
at you, Mr. Flinte3'e. I don’t know wot you wos on, but 
3'ou done it wery gay.” 

“ What I was on,” explained Mr. Flinteye, “was morril}’’ 
the hide and p?-elude to a little olio. Wliether I done it gay 
enough will onl}’’ be known as the olio develops.” 

Thereupon, Mr. Flinte3'e took leave again. When he 
passed the Den the second time, the Snib stood close b3’’ 
the window. 

“ Now, Mr. Flinte3"e,” he mentally exclaimed, “ pla3" 3^111* 
figger ! ” 

The Brand, peering again from the door, saw his master 
look across the street and bow, while he marched more gayl3" 
than before. 

“ Flow aiiy he trundles along I ” said the Brand, aloud. “ I 
bet his little olio is dewelopin’ wery rapid.” 

A simple, vacant smile actuall3" visited the countenance of 
the torpid Snib. 

“ Wh3% I do believe he meant me ! ” she said, and dexter- 
ously smoothed her hair. “ Fie looks like a good, kind old 
soul, — likely he’s a happy-go-lucky person. But I think 
it’s going to his brains.” 

The figure of the Old Bummer pla3'ed itself graceful 
around the corner, and presently reappeared in the Clover- 
Leaf. The Brand was busy at the counter, completing the 
first page of his catechism with an index-finger pointing to 
to the words, “ Ans. Wery tuflf medsun.” 


212 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Was I to hazard my opinion,” remarked Mr. Flinteye, 
glancing at the rude print, “ I should say you’ve got it down 
to a fine point. But on the spelling, you’re a trifle rattled.” 

“So I be on everything,” returned the Brand. “The 
medsun done it. The only wonder is 1 know anything at 
all, after so much Calwin-pizun. But say ! How goes it 
with your little olio? ” 

“As regards the olio,” replied the Old Bummer, “time 
will tell. The present branch in hand is merrily the opening 
of the first act ; or, rather, as I told you before, a Jude and 
7>?-elude to it. Simyular acts formed the staple mains of read- 
ing in my halshon days. In a work of figtion such act would 
p’obably be called the ‘ Spider and the Fly.’ ” 

“I know ’em both,” declared the Brand. “I bet on the 
spider, ever}" time. But I’ve knowed it be the spider an’ the 
icosp. He feels his net shake; so, out he jumps an’ begins 
to pat- him with his talons, trying if he’s good an’ fat. But 
he finds out mighty quick he ain’t got no pattycake there. 
The other feller just curls up his tail kind o’ quiet an’ easy. 
That’s all ; but it’s enough. Wery bad pattycake. Oh, dear 
me ! how Mr. Spider does fly for his hole ! He’s got some- 
thing to think about. Mr. Flinteye, did you find out how 
the land wos layin’?” 

“ Now, Bubber, I can’t stand it ! ” returned Mr. Flinteye. 
“ You’ll branch me out to Bedlam. You keep still ! What- 
ever main you want to work on, do set down and tackle it in 
silence. The Old Gentleman has got brain-work to do.” 

The Old Bummer accordingly took a regular, and, seating 
himself, fell into a meditative mood. But the Brand re- 
applied himself to his catechism ; and patient toil at length 
bore fruit in the words, — 

“ Page doubs. Quest. Wot be tuff medsun good for? 

“ Ans. To give away ; cos you don’t want none yourself. 

“ Page thribs. Quest. Wot sort of a pil be it? 

‘.‘Ans. A blue pil for thesould. 

“ Page fobs. Quest. Wot can it cure folks of? 

“ Ans. Liteness of the hart. A ded shot on feeling too gay. 

“ N.B. A sickness I wos never attacted by, not till I had 
left off tliat tuff medsun. Singed. Liltel Bummer as is, 
Child o’ Satan as wos. 

“ P.S. Good-by, Calwin blue-pil ! Singed agen. Littel 
Bummer as is an’ allers will be ; forever an’ amen.” 


THE AREOPAGUS. 


213 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE AREOPAGUS. 

Posted upon a large elm in the college campus^ appeared 
one morning, a placard, displaying a death’s-head surrounded 
with locks of hair shorn from some Freshman’s scalp ; and 
beneath the death’s-head, Dan Babbon read, in staring capitals, 
the warning, “ Freshmen ! beware the Areopagus ! ” 

While he stood regarding the strange legend with no little 
interest, he was joined by a classmate, — a frail youth of an 
unhealthy aspect, like some sickly vegetable. This one 
came up to his side and looked at the placard with manifest 
trepidation. In a low, apprehensive voice, he explained that 
the Areopagus was a secret court where Freshmen were tried, 
— that it was composed of Sophomores, whose names were 
unknown, and that no one could tell the locality of their judg- 
ment-hall, but that rumor hinted darkly of awful deeds per- 
petrated there. At this moment a passing Sophomore called 
out, — 

“ Beware, Freshmen ! Beware the Areopagus ! ” 

“ Are you speaking to me?” demanded Dan. 

“ Don’t exasperate him ! ” begged the feeble youth, in an 
undertone. “ I'hey are perfectl}' ruthless.” 

“ Have you anything to say to me?” Dan cried again, with 
rising choler. His timid classmate slipped awa}', forthwith, 
and the Sophomore kept on, without noticing question or 
questioner, except that he sang derisively the couplet, — 

“ With his long- tailed calumet, 

Comes the Sagamore.” 

“ Perhaps he’d like to come now,” sneered Dan, his hot 
temper rising faster under the other’s cool insolence. The 
Sophomore passed on, however, without further remark. 
But, from that time, Dan believed himself marked for a vic- 
tim. He was not the one to submit tamely to an indignit}^, 
or to shrink from a struggle in self-defence. Accordingly, 


214 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


he lost no time in procuring a thick walking-stick of hickory, 
in size and weight a formidable ^yeapon. And this lay within 
reach, every evening, while he sat conning his lessons. It 
was late one night, when he heard a stealthy step coming up 
the stairs. Grasping his club, he listened with a beating 
heart, to hear whether the footsteps would go past. But 
they stopped at his door. Then came a muffled knock. He 
sprang into the middle of the room, bludgeon in hand, and 
shouted eagerly, — 

“ Come in ! ” 

The door opened slowly, and the young man of the sickly 
aspect stepped in, but instantly started back in a fright. Dan 
tossed his weapon aside with a hearty laugh. / 

“ Come in, come in ! ” he cried ; “ I’m glad to see 3^ou. I 
was afraid it was somebody else. Thought they were after 
me, sure.” 

The other walked in. 

“ Excuse me, sir ! ” said he, with bashful courtesy. “ Ex- 
cuse me for calling so late ; I was passing and thought I’d 
stop a moment, to ask whether you’ve heard an3’thing more 
about them. Would 3’ou dare resist the Areopagus? ” 

“Yes, I would,” returned Dan. “It would suit me ex- 
actly. I believe they’re cowards, anyhow.” 

“ It would be of no avail,” the other gloomily declared. 
“ Wh3" rouse them to frenzy by hopeless resistance? Better 
let them wreak their will and have it over. The3’ will come 
for me, I know, and I sliall submit to my fate. I am 
not strong enough to oppose them. M3’ mistake has been in 
cultivating the intellectual, to the utter neglect of the ph3'Si- 
cal. I shall be a lamb among wolves.” 

“ The3^ won’t find an3’ lamb round here,” returned Dan. 
“ They shall have a regular knock-down and drag-out. The 
first one that lays a hand on me, — I’ll crack his skull.” 

With increasing depression the pale 3*outh answered, “ Ah ! 
sir, you don’t know what a desperate gang they are. But I 
mustn’t stop any longer, — I find I feel better to keep mov- 
ing. Oh, its terrible to feel that 3^ou are already singled out, 
and that, perhaps, at this veiy moment, some bloodhound of 
that remorseless Areopagus is leaping on your track ! I’d 
about as lief be Prometheus, with a vulture pecking my 
immortal liver.” 


THE AREOPAGUS, 


215 


“ Don’t be in a hurry ! ” urged Dan. “ Bunk in here all 
night ! Then, if they come, I think we’ll give them a 
tanning.” 

‘‘ Thank you, sir, but it would be of no avail,” rejoined the 
other, with a melancholy air of anticipating some fore-ordained 
calamity, and of being prostrated thereby. “I am a 
doomed man. I feel it in the air. There’s no escape but in 
flight, and I would rather die than leave college. Good- 
night ! I shall submit to my fate.” 

Thereupon the unhapp}^ youth moved off. Dan soon re- ' 
tired, taking the precaution, however, to place his club behind 
his pillow. All thoughts of Sophomores, of home, and of 
Phoebe, faded away. The deep slumber of 3^outhful health 
was unbroken b}' the noiseless footsteps in the hall. Nor 
did Dan hear the turning of the key in his lock, or the open- 
ing door. But he had a vague, dream}" consciousness of 
voices singing, and his eyes opened with a dull stare like 
that of a sleep-walker. The room was lighted and filled 
with masked figures, and upon his startled ears burst the 
chorus, — 

“ With his long-tailed calumet, 

Comes the Sagamore.” 

“ Good-evening, gentlemen !” said Dan, dissembling polite- 
ness while he stealthily reached for his club. In vain. He 
was instantly clutched. A dozen hands pinioned him to the 
bed while as many voices cried, in tones of menace, — 

“ Freshman ! beware the Areopagus !” 

It was useless to remonstrate, — impossible to struggle. 
An imposing form, dressed in flowing white robes, gave the 
stern command, — ' 

“ Gemini, bind the prisoner ! ” 

Two giant negroes advanced and wound a long roller band- 
age around Dan, confining his arms immovably against his 
chest. That done, they put on his trousers, pulled a black 
cap over his eyes and dragged him off. He could see noth- 
ing, but all around him he heard voices and footsteps. His 
captors took him through streets and alleys, up and down 
many flights of stairs, over fences and down steep declivi- 
(ies. The effect was bewildering. But when, at last, the 
0:4) was removed from his eyes, the scene was well calculated 


216 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


to excite the terror of a novice. He was in a spacious, diml}'- 
lighted dungeon. The tramping of feet on the stone pave- 
ment echoed dismally from bare walls where no window 
could be seen. The air, damp and cool, reeked with a 
heavy, mouldy odor, like the , abominable smell of some old 
sepulchre. In one corner stood a scaffold, with its halter 
dangling above, and in another a block whereon lay a blood- 
stained axe. Close by rose a horrible guillotine. From the 
ceiling was suspended a long, black beam, — itself an instru- 
ment of terror. An immense balance it was, whereof one 
end rested on the floor, while the other, heavil}" weighted 
with bags of sand, was held aloft by a rope and pullc}’. Be- 
tween the scaffold and the block the wall was draped with 
black, and there, upon a dais, sat the white-robed Judge of 
the Areopagus, a human skeleton and a great hour-glass on 
either side. Here and there lay empty coffins, upon some of 
which sat hideous forms, while from others pallid faces 
stared. Around the captive stood a beastl}^ group — a ram, 
a lion, a bull, and a goat. An immense crab was there also, 
with monstrous claws, and two creatures with the heads, 
scales, and fins of fishes. One frightful figure was a hateful 
hag, lean and shrivelled, and one an archer, with bow and 
quiver. A gigantic scorpion wriggled and frolicked about 
the floor, and, to complete the number of zodiacal signs, on 
each side of Dan stood one of the Twins — the gigantic 
negroes who had bound him. 

“ Bring forward the prisoner ! ” commanded the Judge. 

The Twins dragged Dan nearer to the platform. 

“ Aquarius I ” cried the Judge, addressing a masked figure 
who sat upon the edge of a wooden tub, “ let the prisoner 
be seated in the dock ! ” 

The Waterman filled his tub with cold water, and, at a 
signal from him, the Twins carried their prisoner thither. 
What little resistance Dan could make was speedily ended. 
In a trice he found himself sitting in the tub, with his legs 
hanging over the edge. The Waterman stood near, hose in 
hand, and plaj^ed a stream in his face. 

“Freshman!” said the stern voice of the Judge, “you 
are charged with many crimes.” 

“Wait till I get hold of you!” cried Dan, hoarse with 
fury. 


THE AREOPAGUS. 


217 


The Judge slowly refreshed himself from a flask. Then 
he continued, — 

“ You are accused of failing to show a proper respect for 
the Sophomore class. You are charged with staring at the 
young ladies who pass the college campus for the sole benefit 
of the Sophomores. It is alleged that you have been seen 
carrj'ing a cane. B^inall}’, are you charged with resisting the 
authority of the Areopagus. If you desire to speak in your 
own behalf, be brief!” 

Dan’s cheeks flamed. Helpless rage filled his eyes with 
tears. 

“ Coward and sneak ! ” he cried. “ Fd give ten years of 
life for one chance at you.” 

By a desperate struggle to free himself he succeeded only 
in splashing the water. The Judge refreshed himself again 
and resumed : — 

“ Prisoner, look upon the Jury ! Jury, look upon the pris- 
oner ! What say you, foreman of the jury, is the prisoner 
guilty, or is he not?” 

“ Guilty as the very d — 1 ! ” rang out the stentorian voice 
of the Lion. 

“ Prisoner !” exclaimed the Judge, “ you hear the verdict. 
What have you to say why sentence should not be pro- 
nounced ? ” 

“ I say 3’ou are a coward and sneak 1 ” cried Dan. “ You 
took me asleep. You tied m^^ hands. But it’s a long road 
that has no turn, — I’ll be even with you yet.” 

“Wretched felon!” returned the Ju^e, in a solemn 
voice ; “ no long road lies before you. Short and straight 
3"our path to where the inexorable Ferryman awaits 3^0111- 
shade. Hence is no backward track. Beneath these stones 
3^our bones will rest. The awful sentence of the Areopa- 
gus consigns you to torture and to death.” 

The zodiacal Signs now gathered around the tub, with 
cigars and pipes that emitted dense clouds. A sheet was 
held ovei- the condemned like a canopy, to render the smoke 
more stifling. Squalid Virgo pressed a wad of tobacco into 
his mouth. Screams and 3’ells filled the air with discordant 
din, which gave wa3' to harmony, while louder and louder 
rose the mocking chorus, — 


218 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


“ Then smo-ke away 
Till the golden ray 
Lights up the dawn of the morrow.” 

Dan was speedily overcome with deadl}* nausea. He 
reeled backward in the tub, and the sight left his eyes. 
Every muscle was relaxed. Like a distant echo, his ears 
caught the words, — 

‘‘ With his long-tailed calumet, 

Comes the Sagamore. 

“ Smokes him out and smokes him in, 

Disciplines him sore ; * 

Turns his stomach inside out, 

Pukes him on the floor.” 

When consciousness returned he was standing on the.pave- 
ment, and the Waterman was drenching him with his hose. 
But this was refreshing ; the distressing prostration caused 
by the tobacco began to yield to returning strength. The 
Judge, holding his bottle in a loving clasp, was alread}’ for- 
getful of the dignity of his office. 

“ Prisler ! ” he cried, in a thick voice, “ you’re tight, — • 
tight-za-brick ! ” 

“ You lie ! ” retorted Dan ; “ and if ever I find you out — ” 

But the threat was drowned in a storm of roars and howls 
wherein everj^ Sign of the zodiac had his part. When the 
stunning noise abated, the Judge rose unsteadily. But the 
Twins immediately placed themselves by the tottering func- 
tionary, one upon each side, and supported him. 

“All ri’ ! ” he cried, with maudlin menace. “That’s all 
ri’. Dodgerknees is out his tub. Having had a taste of 
h3’draulics, he will now be introduced to another branch of 
mechanics. All ready there ! The ilclileplale ! ” 

The Twins now replaced the black cap over Dan’s eyes, 
and carried him to the top of a broad staircase on oiie side 
of the room. There they held him prostrate, while the two 
Fishes covered the stairs with boards, making a long and 
steep inclined plane. Taurus, with three or four assistants, 
spread a mattress at the bottom of the plane, and covered it 
with a blanket. 


THE AREOPAGUS, 


219 


“ Fresmal ! ” stammered the Judge, “ the ilclileplale leads 
to the realms of Pluto. Facilis est descensus! 

“ I dare you to fight ! ” raved Dan. “ Untie my hands ! 1*11 
beat you blue ! ” 

But the Judge paid no heed to the challenge. He gave a 
signal, and the Twins started their captive down the plane. 
Over and over he rolled, bounding and bumping, with accel- 
erating speed, until he bounced upon the blanket, and w’as 
instantly tossed on high by the Bull and his assistants. The 
sensation was dreadful. He felt himself hurled, he knew not 
how or whither, now falling, then tossed, again and again. 
Meanwhile, the dungeon resounded with the maddening 
chorus : — 

“ Rock-a-by baby 

Upon the tree-top; 

When the wind blows, 

The cradle will rock.” 

Weak and gidd}’’, Dan la}- stretched at length, half uncon- 
scious, upon the mattress. But his tormentors revived him 
by pouring liquor down his throat, while louder and louder 
sang and yelled the chorus : — 

“ Landlord, fill the flowing bowl, 

Until it doth run over, 

For to-night we’ll merry, merry be, 

To-morrow we’ll get sober.” 

When the song ceased, the Judge was swaying gently be- 
tween the supporting Twins. 

“ Gelmen ! ” he observed, in a husky, plaintive voice, 
“ I’m all ri’. So’s the shkeltle ; ” and here he bestowed upon 
the skeleton a kick that made it rattle from skull to heel. 

“Gelmen ! Judge and shkeltle both all ri’. All rt, I shay, 
— all-ri-i-i! Booby Fressy’s nasty drunk.” 

You’re a liar ! ” cried Dan, “ and I’ll — ” 

Further than that he said nothing, for, on the instant, the 
Ram and the Goat butted him to the floor. They then 
dragged him to the balance and bound him fast upon the lower 
end. The cap was removed from his eyes. At the rope 
which held the immense beam a spectral shape took his 
station with a sharp sword. 

“ Freshman ! look at me ! ” said this figure. am Libra, - 


220 


4 YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


the Spirit of the Balance. Moral worth alone has weight 
with me. If thou deservest the further indulgence of our 
gracious Alma Mater, the doom of the Areopagus ma}" yet 
be averted. Thou art to be weighed on the balance, if 
found wanting, thy pain will soon be ended.” 

Dan looked up to where the ceiling was set full of spik('s 
like the teeth of a harrow, looked at Libra with the bright 
blade lifted over his shoulder, and thrilled with terror. His 
strong nerves were giving way at last under the prolonged 
strain. Now a solemn chorus began chanting, — 

“ Hitchety-hatchety, up I go.” 

t 

Dan saw the quick flash of Libra’s sword, and closed his 
eyes as the great balance swung through the air. A blast of 
wind swept down over bis face. Then came a sudden shock. 
A knot had caught in the pulley and brought the balance to 
a sudden stop. He opened his eyes and found himself lying 
within a foot of the spikes. . 

“ Down with him ! ” clamored the furious crowd. “ Give 
him the guillotine ! ” ’ 

The Judge, reeling gently to and fro between the Twins, 
murmured in half-conscious assent, — 

“ All ri’, gelmen ; all ri’ ! Fresmal muss-be-guilltile 1 ” 
No sooner was the balance lowered than Virgo, the hate- 
ful hag, uttered a shrill, inhuman cry of joy. No other mortal 
lips ever gave forth a sound like that. The tremulous voice 
of old age, the frenzied tones of hysterical passion, and the 
harsh screech of a macaw, were all blended in that startling 
note. Through the crowd burst the hideous virgin, her 
tattered gown clinging close to her bony frame, and long, 
thin, grizzled fillets lashing her withered face. 

“ Darling ! Darling ! ” she croaked, and twined her skinn}’ 
arms around the victim’s neck, and laid her wrinkled cheek 
to his, as if inspired with some unhallowed, infernal ecstacy. 
In his shuddering ear she prattled and babbled, — 

“ O sweetheart, thou art saved ! Fear not, beloved ! 
thine own loving maiden has baffled them.” 

Roars of laughter shook the dungeon walls. 

‘‘ For God’s sake ! ” groaned the half-smothered youth, 
“ anything but this I ” 


THE AREOPAGUS. 


221 


But the horrible harpy fluttered over him with extravagant 
caresses. Her lips exhaled noisome fumes and nestled 
closer to his ear. Do not repulse your little maid ! ” she 
entreated, and patted his cheek fondly. In vain he essa^^ed 
a struggle. Louder and louder raged the mad mirth of the 
surrounding monsters. Still in Dan’s ear twanged the tongue 
of the witch, — 

“Oh, fly with me! I can save you. We will dwell to- 
gether. I have a bower, — it’s on Alpha Centauri 1 ” 

But now came Taurus, trotting swiftly up. Catching the 
Yirgin on his horns he bore her off*. She escaped, however, 
and fled back, shrieking, “Jupiter Taurus, thou shalt never 
possess me ! I can call spirits from the nasty deep, and 
they ivill come.'' 

She stopped by the balance where Dan sat, unloosed, 
between tlie Crab and the Scorpion, waving her long arms 
and muttering an incantation. 

“ Come, Fliegen ! ” she then croaked aloud. “ Come, bite 
the Bull I ” 

The summons was answered by a sharp sound, as of a 
whizzing spindle.' A dragon-fly of monstrous size dashed 
out from some dim .recess, and sped through the murky air. 
Away galloped the Bull at his utmost speed, and close 
behind sailed the giant fly, on slanting wings, like some 
huge bird of prey, darting now and then upon. his quarry, 
and making him bellow with pain and terror. Nor was the 
chase ended until the Archer stepped forth and planted an 
arrow in the pursuer. The panting Bull then rested from 
his flight, and the monster, bearing the shaft in his body, 
retreated to his den. Meanwhile, the Pandemoniac chorus, 
burst out afresh with the song, — 

“ It’s the way we have at old Yale, sir; 

It’s the way we have at old Yale, sir; 

It’s the way we have at old Yale, sir. 

To drive dull care away.” 

Protracted abuse and cumulative misery were having 
their effect upon the victim. He hardly knew whether the 
scene was a horrible nightmare, or whether he was on the 
verge of mania. In his ear the Scorpion hissed, — 


222 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Freshman, there is one hope for j^on. Kneel before the 
Judge ! Crave the mercy of the Court ! ” 

Dan’s voice was weak, but his spirit was yet unbroken. 

“ I’ll die first ! ” he returned. “ I despise a coward, and 
hate a sneak ! But every dog has his day.” 

The Judge was hiccoughing incessantly, and sucking 
mightily upon an empty pipe. 

“ Pipe’s zout,” he petulantly complained. “ Pipezout, 
I zay ! Ly-my-pipe ! Gemili, lymypipe ! Fellers ! Gelmel ! 
Lay him out on guill’tile ! Whyn’t you clip off his head ? ” 
Upon the word, Dan was carried to the guillotine. This 
terrible machine consisted of a blood-stained platform of 
heavy planks, into which were set two tall posts ; and, 
between the posts, a solid cross-piece pla3^ed up and down, 
armed on its under surface with a keen knife. The blade 
reached across the entire space between the uprights and, 
like the balance, was held up by a rope and pulley. The 
platform was hollowed to receive the victim’s head, and 
furnished with straps to fasten him down. Dan gave all the 
resistance he could. A sudden kick made the Scorpion leap 
like a frog, and sent him sprawling in an attitude of batra- 
chian agon}". But, in less than a minute, Dan found himself 
bound fast to the platform. He had no suspicion that they 
would dare to do him serious harm. But, among that half- 
intoxicated crowd, an accident or a miscalculation might 
easily occur. He could not repress a shudder as he gazed 
aloft at the gleaming knife, and then at the figure who 
glided to his station at the rope. The appearance of this 
person was, indeed, frightful. Clad in black tights upon 
which was painted, in white, a perfect skeleton, holding in 
his right hand a sickle and in his left an hour-glass whose 
sands w^ere nearly run, he seemed the embodiment of death 
itself. Waving his glass, he cried, in a hollow voice, — 
“Freshman! those few wasting sands count the last 
moments of tliy life. Prepare to meet thy doom. Perchance 
in thy bosom lies enshrined the image of a rustic sweetheart. 
Perhaps, when thou didst leave thy rural home to rush madly 
on thy fate, thou didst vow eternal devotion to some village 
maid. Wouldst thou send a token that th}" last thoughts 
dwelt on that dear one? Mine be the task to bear it. I will 
diy her tears ; I will turn her sorrow into jo}".” 


THE AREOPAGUS, 


223 


Dan writhed under his bonds, and turned his flashing eyes 
upon the speaker. The latter shook his glass and cried, — « 
“ Freshman ! now the shades call 3^011 home.” 

Once more, above tlie uproar of brutish voices, burst an 
infernal squawk from Virgo, as she cast herself upon the 
platform and hugged her unhappy prey. Her horrid claws 
toyed with his hair. Over his bare neck crawled her snaky 
locks. Her reeking, odious lips were glued to his ear wherein 
she cooed, — 

“ Oh, say thou art mine and there 3'et is time ! I’ll call a 
spirit from the nasty deep.” 

The Crab and the Scorpion fastened upon the ankles of 
the witch and drew her off shrieking. The last sands 
dropped, the sickle whistled through the air and the knife 
fell. But, with a loud clang the blade stopped two feet 
above the platform. Then the dungeon shook again with 
howls and yells. On all sides resounded, “ To the block 
with him ! Give him to the headsman ! ” 

The Twins threw themselves upon Dan before he had time 
to see what had saved him from decapitation. They unbound 
him ; they dragged him to the block where stood the heads- 
man, dressed in scarlet, gliding his red fingers along the 
edge of his axe. One of the Signs now measured him for a 
coffin, while two others raised some of the flat stones of the 
pavement and began digging a grave. The victim was 
stretchcLi at full length, face upward, and the executioner 
swung his glittering axe, gathering momentum for the stroke. 
The Archer now drew the black cap over Dan’s eyes, and then 
stood near, a wet towel in his hand. The noise was all hushed 
to the silence of the tomb. A clear voice exclaimed, — 

“ Headsman, strike ! ” 

With a dull sound the axe was planted in the block, and, 
simultaneous]3", the archer struck his wet napkin across the 
bare, upturned throat. Once more the vile witch pounced 
upon the prostrate form with infernal jo3^ 

“ Now art thou mine !”slie screeched, snatching the cap from 
his eyes and boring her foul beak into his ear. But on the 
instant she started back with a cry of alarm. Dan’s cheek 
was cool and pale. His very lips were white. He had 
fainted. The}^ cut the bandage from his arms and chest. 
They' dashed cold water upon him. They washed his face 


224 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


with whiskey and poured the liquor down his throat. As 
they saw his color coming back their fright died away, and 
when they raised him to his feet, the whole throng were sing- 
ing, — 

“ Here’s to good old whiskey, drink it down I 
Here’s to good old whiskey, 

For it makes us feel so frisky. 

Drink it down, drink it down. 

Drink it down^ down.’' 

Presently the Crab approached with a branding-iron in his 
huge claw. 

“ Freshman,” said he, “ to the mercy of the Court 3^ou owe 
3’our worthless and justly forfeited life. At the last moment 
it hath pleased his Honor to countermand the order for your 
execution.” 

“All ri,’ Calcer,” assented the maudlin official. “Thats- 
hawlri ! Gimme a drink ! A dink ! A dink ! ” 

The Twins satisfied the demands of the Court. 

“But,” resumed the Crab, “upon your person you will 
alvva^’S carry a sign that you cannot escape the arm of this 
all-powerful tribunal. You are to be branded and then 
released. The letter A — the seal of the Areopagus — must 
now be impressed upon 3"our forehead.” 

A small furnace was brought out and the Crab thrust in 
the iron. The Twins assisted the Judge to his chair. Dan 
was seated upon a coffin near the furnace. His swollen 
hands were fast regaining their suppleness, while his lungs 
played freely, no longer impeded by the wet and shrunken 
bandage. His heart burned to think of the indignities that 
had been heaped upon him, and he thirsted for revenge. He 
saw Libra’s sword shining upon the platform, and longed to 
seize it. The liquor he had been forced to drink seemed to 
<louble his strength and added to the fury that urged him on ; 
and now, to madden him, rose the mocking chorus : — 

“ Airy as a mountain top, 

Freshie is no more. 

For his little comb is cut, — 

Cut by Sagamore. ” 

His heart beat loud and fast. His temples throbbed, and 
the hot blood rushed through artery and vein like streams of 


THE AREOPAGUS. 


225 


fire. He saw the iron, white-hot, in the furnace, — saw a 
signal from the Crab, and the black Twins advancing to bind 
him. Then all were startled by a loud knock. The next 
moment two masked figures entered, dragging between them the 
pale youth who had so gloomily expressed to Dan the convic- 
tion that he was a doomed man. All the Signs sprang to meet 
the new-comers except the Crab, who fanned the fire, and the 
drunken Judge who was nodding in his chair. Amidst terrific 
yells and the stunning din of horns and gongs, the}" tore the 
black cap from this prisoner’s eyes. Every beast then 
bleated, or bellowed, or roared, with might and main. The 
Archer twanged his bow, the Scorpion hissed and hissed, 
and frolicked around the captive, while Virgo, the frightful 
hag, waved her long locks, pressed her withered face close to 
his, and chanted : — 

“ Freshman ! thine hour has come I ” 

Almost beside himself with terror, the hapless young man 
sank upon his knees. But at this moment Dan sprang like a 
tiger upon the Crab. With one blow he knocked him head- 
long on the pavement. Then, snatching the glowing iron 
from the fire, he darted upon the drunken Judge. 

“ Coward and sneak !” he shouted, smiting the mask from 
his face. He recognized his false Sophomore friend, and 
clapped the white-hot metal to his cheek. A sharp scream 
rang through the dungeon. Brandishing the fiery weapon 
above his head, and bestowing a contemptuous kick upon 
the still prostrate Crab as he passed, Dan strode toward 
the door. Notone dared confront him. Right and left they 
gave way, and he passed out into the street, closely followed 
by his terror-stricken classmate. 

The following morning, upon the tree where the placards 
of the Areopagus were usually posted, appeared a sketch 
representing a Freshman throttling the Judge of the Secret 
Court ; and above the figures large capitals showed the 
legend — 

“ A BRANDED COWARD AND SNEAK.” 

The elm was surrounded b}" a compact body of Freshmen, 
while a determined band of Sophomores strove to tear down the 


226 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


insulting picture. Of course Dan was in the fra}", and, as the 
story of his exploit spread, cheer after cheer went up in his honor. 
He was the hero of his class. The attacking party charged 
in a solid phalanx, nor was it long before a cloud of dust 
half obscured the struggling forms, while fast and loud there- 
from issued taunts, cheers, and vehement battle-cries. One 
Sophomore had almost reached the placard. Already was he 
clutching at it, when Dan seized him round the waist, carried 
him off bodily through the crowd, and tossed him upon the 
ground. The fallen brave apparently deemed himself the 
subject of some strange hallucination. Quickly leaping to 
his feet, he measured his captor with his e^^^es and threw off 
the remains of his coat. Then he advanced, remarking in a 
tone of cheerful self-reliance, — 

“ I should just like to try that once more.” ' 

‘‘ Well, here you go,” replied Dan, and, without more 
words, he seized the other, whirled him over his back, and 
dashed him down again. The ram of the Areopagus, for he 
it was, arose with a more sheepish countenance than he had 
ever worn in the character of Aries, and limped off, holding 
his hands to his sides, “ a sadder and a wiser ” ram. 

By this triumph the enthusiasm of the Freshmen was 
stimulated be3’ond measure. Jubilant cheers and roars of 
laughter rose from their ranks, and fiercer grew the struggle. 
Into the turmoil Dan forced his way again. Unheard or un- 
heeded by him was the command, Young man, forbear ! ” 
though uttered by a voice of authority. But Dan felt a hand 
on his collar, and immediatcl}’ closed wdth his assailant. 
Blind and deaf with excitement, he clung fast to his adver- 
sarv, locked his arms around him, and shook him this wa}" 
and that. The others ceased their strife to watch the pair. 
Sophomores and Freshmen alike made the w^elkin ring with 
shouts. Dan felt that he must sustain the reputation that he 
had won. He strung his sinew's for the task, and his tall, 
slender antagonist swayed like a reed in a storm. A pair of 
spectacles dropped from the latter’s nose, — a pencil and 
a note-book from his hand. His hat fell off, disclosing a 
crown as bald and smooth as a gourd, down which were 
coursing rivulets of sweat. Flocking to the arena came 
crowds of students. The Sophomores were almost frantic 
with delight. 


THE AREOPAGUS. 


227 


“Hi-yi!” they yelled. “Shake him, Freshiel Hi-yi! 
Three to one on Freshie 1 Five to one ! Hi-yUyi I ” 

Dan thought that even his foes were admiring his valor, 
while his partisans were cheering him on to victory. The 
powerful muscles on his arms swelled out, and, to the 
other, it was as if an iron band were shrinking round his 
ribs. 

“What does this mean, young man?” gasped a jerky, 
staccato voice. “ What do you mean b}^ this?” 

But Dan was deaf to eveiything but the plaudits of the 
spectators. 

“Back-heel him!” they cried. “Put on the hug! Lay 
him out ! ” 

Dan collected his strength for a final effort; then, striking 
the other’s feet from under him, he fell fairly upon him, 
while the delight of the hundreds who stood around culmi- 
nated in delirious laughter. Dan had brought down large 
game. Not until he had seated himself astride the other’s 
chest, and demanded whether he had had enough, did he 
learn that an illustrious member of the Faculty had suc- 
cumbed to his prowess. It is impossible to describe his 
feelings as the discovery flashed upon him. Never, in all 
his life, had he experienced such emotions. To say that he 
was overwhelmed with remorse and dismay is to say nothing. 
He was petrified. 

“ Well, well, young man !” panted the prostrate professor, 
“ what outrage next? Perhaps 3'ou contemplate cutting my 
throat? ” 

A petrifaction does not stir. Neither did Dan. 

“Haven’t you a poniard, or a dagger?” pursued the 
professor, with trenchant inflection. 

“Oh, my dear sir!” lamented the victor; “I protest, 
before Heaven, I didn’t know it was 3^011. On m3^ most 
sacred honor, sir, I didn’t.” 

“ When do 3^011 purpose to rise?” inquired the professor, 
with cold-blooded patience. “Your eloquence is indeed per- 
suasive, but I imagine it would gain additional force if you 
would permit me to get up.” 

The most agile acrobat would have admired the celerity 
with which Dan bounded to his feet. The -professor arose 
deliberately and gathered up his book, his pencil, and the 


228 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


fragments of his spectacles. That done, he said, in a porten- 
tous voice : — 

“Now, young man, if you are through abusing me, you 
will give me 5^our name.” 

“It is Babbon, sir,” returned Dan, with a woe-begone 
countenance ; “ but I swear, upon the holy Bible, I wouldn’t 
have done it for the world. I didn’t once think — ” 

“ That is sufficient,” the professor icilj" interposed. “You 
will not fail to report at the meeting of the Faculty this 
afternoon, in the President’s stud3\ Your case will be dis- 
posed of there.” 

Thereupon he marked in his note-book the names of sev- 
eral prominent applauders of his downfall, and the crowd 
scattered. But Dan walked off alone, to his room, his 
laurels already turned to thorns, filled with gloomy forebod- 
ings of expulsion and disgrace. 


CHAPTER XX. 

MKS. BABBON SUPERINTENDS PHCEBE’S EDUCATION, AND 
THE WORK OF THE CANKER-WORM GOES ON. 

In due time Phoebe escaped from Deacon Biggot’s tyranu}". 
To his wdfe Mr. Babbon one da^^ had said, “ M3' dear, I cer- 
tainly think Deacon Biggot a very conscientious man ; but, 
as a school-teacher, I’m beginning to believe him a failuie. 
No doubt he’s a good hand to talk to children about Moses 
and the prophets ; but don’t you think the3' ought to learn 
something else?” 

“ What I think^’’ the worthy wife placidl3' returned, “ is 
this : It were well if one other member of this famil3' would 
go to school to Deacon Biggot, and stud3' Moses and the 
prophets. He might learn what the great Hebrew leader 
thought of those who worshipped the golden calf.” 

“ Yes, 3'es, I know,” hastily interposed the husband. 
“ There’s the brazen serpent, too, and Aaron’s rod, and vari- 
ous other things not worth while to mention just now. Prob- 
ably the deacon is well up in those matters. In fact, they 
are ver3' interesting to the mature and thoughtful mind. 


PHCEBE'S EDUCATION. 


22U 


Children may not find them entertaining. But what of 
that? They can’t be expected to see all the great issius in- 
volved ill the budding of Aaron’s rod, or the non-budding of 
the same. Again, take that serpent ! — liow can we suppose 
a child to comprehend the vast significance of the brazen 
serpent? The supposition is sheer folly. But Moses under- 
stood it. He was, indeed, a very remarkable man. I agree 
with you, m}^ dear, he was a great leader. Then think of 
him as a lawgiver to that horde of barbarous Jews ! Him- 
self a barbarous Jew, too. That is, — not exactly barbarous, 
but — well, what I, mean to say is, probably he didn’t have 
many early advantages. All the more to his credit, say I. 
I was always a firm believer in self-made men.” 

“ Deacon Biggot may not be a man of great learning,” re- 
marked Mrs. Babbon, “ but probably he could inform 3’ou 
that Moses was neither barbarous nor ignorant. He was an 
educated man, Mr. Babbon, — learned in all the wisdom of 
the Egyptians ; — remember that ! — adopted by a princess ; 
— note that! — brought up at the Egyptian court; not ex- 
actly a school of igyiorance., I should suppose ; — a traveller 
in Midian and elsewhere. Would that imply that he was an 
ignoramus? And, as for being self-made, he was nothing 
of the kind. Moses was a chosen vessel of the Lord. It’s 
a pity he was a Jew. But, after all, they are the ‘ peculiar 
people,’ and he was the chosen vessel.” 

“I wonder what kind of vessel is meant,” said Mr. 
Babbon, with an air of deep interest. “ It’s very unlikely 
the Egyptian pottery bore the slightest resemblance to ours.” 

“ Don’t be absurd ! ” returned Mrs. Babbon. “ You know 
the language is figurative. A metaphorical vessel is meant.” 

“Of course, my dear,” resumed her husband. “A great 
deal of Scriptural language is figui ative, I believe, — partic- 
ularly the obscure passages. The commentators all say so, 
and, where the commentators agree, I alwa^’s agree with 
them. But, in those ancient times they had utensils of a 
sacred character, used in religious ceremonies, as well as 
those of a domestic kind. Now, what I’m trying to get at is, 
what particular vessel is the metaphor for Moses. As touch- 
ing that vessel, I don’t think the commentators are agreed. 
But, as regards many modern descendants of the ‘ peculiar 
people,’ I could point out the article very soon.” 


230 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Oh, merciful fathers!” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon with a 
gesture of repellaiit satiety. “ Vessel ! Vessel ! I wish 
you’d drop that everlasting vessel. I do hate an eterunl 
ding-dong on one word. It’s enough to shatter nei-ves uf 
steel.” 

“ Certainl}^, my dear,” was the soothing reply, “ and I’ve 
no'desire to take it up again. But those obscure passages 
always have a strange fascination for me. To return to 
Deacon Biggot, I’m sure he’s a good man, — according to 
his lights. The trouble with his lights is, they’re loo dim. 
More zeal than knowledge, — too much wick and too little 
tallow.” 

“ Nobody can change my opinion of Deacon Biggot,” re- 
jdied Mrs. Babbon. “ He is one of the salt of the earth ; — 
doing his Master’s work ; — harvesting souls while others are 
gathering gold. His reward is not of this world, and the 
moth will not corrupt it, nor yet the rust. You may ridicule 
the one who was worthy to receive the Commandments for the 
human race, and the prophets, too. You ma}' sneer at Dea- 
con Biggot — ” 

“ My dear,” expostulated Mr. Babbon, “ how can j^ou ! I 
ridicule Moses and the prophets ! Never ! With Moses and 
the prophets on my side,' ‘ I’d face a frowning world,’ and, as 
far as Deacon Biggot is concerned, I don’t doubt his consci- 
entiousness a particle. But I was thinking of secular mat- 
ters. You know Ave were talking about school-teaching. 
School-teachers are dogmatic enough at the best. You see, 
the\' come veiy little in contact with men. They have to deal 
mostly with children, and the subjects they handle must be 
put in dwarf shape for the childish mind. Their word is 
law ; and, then, they must always have an answer ready for 
any unexpected question. The consequence is, a habit of hid- 
ing a lack of ideas with empty words. Like the cuttle-fish, 
they eject a cloud of obscurity, and the child moves off en- 
veloped in that. If he thinks anything, he thinks he is 
answered. But his teacher is his pattern. So he, too, 
learns the cuttle-fish method. Now, if 3^011 take a school- 
teacher who for nearly a quarter of a century has been a little 
country pope, you’ve got something that children had better 
keep clear of. I call Phoebe a promising girl, and she’s old 
enough now to go to the high school. I’ve made up m3" 


PHCEBE'S EDUCATION. 


281 


mind to send her there. She certain!}" is improving very 
much under your management, and it’s fortunate for her she 
fell into such hands. Not one mother in twenty knows how 
to bring up a girl like her, or, in fact, any girl, except to 
make them slatterns, ninnies, half-baked ladies., — wishy- 
washy, flims}^ creatures, neither useful nor ornamental.” 

‘‘ Come, come ! ” Mrs. Babbon gently interposed, with no 
little satisfaction at the implied comparison ; “ don’t 3’ou 
think you’re overdrawing the picture a little?” 

“Not a bit,” said Mr. Babbon. “I’m glad there’s one 
sensible woman in the world ; and, as for piety, you don’t 
understand my real sentiments. What I actually think is, 
it’s a woman’s crowning grace and charm. I haven’t the 
least doubt Phoebe will do credit to your training.” 

Mrs. Babbon was immensely gratified. “ I don’t suppose 
we ever shall exactly agree about the deacon,” she replied ; 
“but perhaps you’re right about the school. We ought to 
do our duty by her just as if she were our own.” 

“ She’s a fine girl,” said Mr. Babbon ; “ it’s a pity we can’t 
send her to a finishing-school.” 

“ school ! ” was the scornful echo. “Then she 

would be finished indeed, — and done for. Hadn’t you 
better have our cut-glass striped and varnished, or plant my 
oleander in the coal bin ? We women can’t boast of much 
capacit}' compared to the massive brains of our husbands ; 
but I could mention instances where the giant intellect would 
have done a far better stroke, if he had hearkened to the 
counsel of his little, simple wife. I don’t pretend to much 
wit, still I have some ideas on the education of girls. Say 
doll-factory, if you want to, but don’t say finishing-school to 
me. If Phoebe must be manufactured into a young lady, 
don’t have the gloss put on by any grass-widow. As for 
the finished products, — well, I’d better not begin.” 

“Afraid of overdrawing the picture?” inquired Mr. 
Babbon. 

“No, I couldn’t,” was the reply; “not if I talked till 
every tooth rattled. If there’s anything human I can’t 
endure it’s a namby-pamby girl. I pity the poor creatures 
from the bottom of my heart, and when I think what they’ve 
got to live thiough 1 grow melancholy. The sight of tliem 
makes me actually sick. Then there’s the giggling kind, — 


232 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


giggling with their giggles, at everything and nothing, till 
they’re full forty j^ears old. When that habit is formed 
nothing can break it, — nothing in the wide world, unless it 
be a drunken husband. Another thing, — a girl that I bring up 
has got to stand straight, sit straight, walk straight. 1 won’t 
tolerate any lop-sided, turtle-backed runt. You may depend 
upon it, Mr. Babbon, if the mothers in this country would at- 
tend to that one point ’twould be a golden blessing to the land. 
More female sickness and good-for-nothingness comes from 
neglect of that than from ever3’thing else. Only make the 
girls grow straight and I’ll answer for their future. Half 
the doctors can look for other business then, — yes, and 
millions of dollars be spared for the benighted heathen of 
the Punjaub. If m\^ ideas could be carried out, I tell you 
there’d be a different race of beings in this country in one 
hundred years, — that is my opinion. Mark my words, you’ll 
see that girl straight as an Indian 3’et, or 3^ou’ll see me give 
up and die.” 

“ Well, I do say,” returned Mr. Babbon, “your ideas on 
this subject are the best I ever heard. A sensible woman is 
a jewel. What about music? I suppose Phoebe must learn 
to wallop the piano ; — pianos are made to be walloped.” 

Judicious praise was a pleasant sedative to the nervous 
lad3\ She broke out in a good-natured laugh. “ I declare 
to Goodness,” she exclaimed, “if 3’ou haven’t got the right 
word now! Walloped! You’ve hit the nail on the head. 
If there’s any one thing I abhor, it’s this eternal tinky-tanky ^ 
tinky-tanky forever rising up from city and town, from vil- 
lage and farm-house, all over this broad land. In every 
family a piano, — from mansion to shanty, and from states- 
man to scavenger ; on every piano-stool a namby-pamby sim- 
pleton or a tattered trollop. It’s grown to a national sin. 
'fhey may not have bread to eat, or raiment to wear, — not 
even the grace of God in their hearts ; but tinky-tanky they 
must have. No one loves music more than myself. It’s one 
of the delights of heaven, and Scripture is full of it. There’s 
Solomon’s Song — ” 

“ I know it,” interposed the husband, with sympathetic 
assent ; “its one of those obscene passages that always 
charmed me.” 

“ What!” cried the astounded wife. “ Obscene 1’* 


PIICEBE'S EDUCATION. 


233 


“ My dear, I said obscure.*' 

“ Mr. Babbon, you did not.’’ 

“ Well, I thought I did. My tongue may have slipped, 
for I was very much interested in your ideas ; but, of course, 
I meant obscure.” 

“ To the carnal mind,” rejoined Mrs. Babbon, with mild 
severity, ‘‘ it may be obscure. Not to the eye of faith. 
When you interrupted me I was going to say, — but it’s of no 
consequence. I like to hear you talk, Mr. Babbon.” 

“ I shan’t do it,” Mr. Babbon adroitly replied. “ As long 
as I can hear such solid sense, the best thing I can do is to 
listen.” 

This by way of a sin-offering to atone for the slip of the 
tongue. 

“One thing I can tell you,” resumed Mrs. Babbon. 
“There’s more ideas in me than you’ve ever found out. 
Thank heaven, my mother took the namby-pamby out of me, 
very quick. Yes, she did, ‘ with an high hand and an out- 
stretched arm.’ I praise her for it. I say I’m a lover of 
true music. The abuse of the piano is what I cry out 
against, — this universal, everlasting worrying of the instru- 
ment, and never learning it. What girl ever learns to play 
well? Not one in a hundred. What sort of a performance 
will you hear from one of yoav finished young ladies?” 

“ ’T would wrench a protest from the patient ass,” declared 
Mr. Babbon, essajung a flight commensurate with the sub- 
ject. “ E’en to the ribald parrot’s flinty beak ’twould lend 
the curl of flippant scorn.” 

“You needn’t try,” replied Mrs. Babbon. “You can’t 
do it justice. Even the ass has more common-sense and the 
parrot more music. But wh}' blame the daughters? What 
mother ever sees to it that they do learn? Not one in a 
thousand. One thing 3"ou ma}’ be sure of : you’ll see that 
girl able to play any piece that’s set before her, and play it 
aright, or you’ll see the first failure of my life. She may 
have to depend on it, yet, for her daily bread. Riches have 
wings, and we live in a practical world. I’ll never, never, 
believe in this superficial, smattering education of girls, — 
this shallow pretense called culture. It’s a grief, and a sor- 
row perpetual, to think of. There must be a change, or it 
will prove the curse and ruin of our country. There’s other 


234 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


things 3'oa’ll observe, in that girl, if my life is spared. You’ll 
see her neat, clean, and tidy. Let me know it, if you ever 
find her dawdling round, with her hair a-fly and her clothes 
like distraction ! She’s going to keep herself decent ; — 
whether compau}’ is expected or not. Her room, too. I 
won’t have it all littered up, from morn till night, — skirts 
on the floor and shoes on the bed. I know she’s had good 
training, for she’s a very careful girl, in those particulars. 
But nothing to what she will be. When I think of the care- 
less mothers of the rising generation, I ask m^^self is this 
countiy doomed. You smile, but nations have their fall. 
Man’s giant intellect may seek for causes, but I say look to 
the mothers ! See what they are ! Would that I could have 
them gathered together, and a herald standing on a pinnacle. 
I would say, ‘ Herald, proclaim, as with all the trumpets of 
Israel, woe unto 3^011, wives, widows, mothers ! for 3^0 make 
clean not even the outside of the cup and the platter, and 
within are 3'e — are 3"e — ” 

“ Mj' dear,” remarked Mr. Babl)on, “ ain’t 3’ou getting into 
rather deep water? I think the less said about the inside of 
the cup-and-platter, the better.” 

‘‘ I’m sure I don’t know what you refer to,” replied the 
wife, with offended dignit3\ 

“ Why, a metaphorical cup-and-platter,” explained Mr. 
Babbon. “ The language being Scriptual, is probably fig- 
urative.” 

“ The language is good enough,” retorted Mrs. Babbon. 
“ But if you wish to use it as a vehicle for some hidden, vulgar 
thought, you must take it to a different market. There’s one 
thing in men I thoroughly' despise. It’s that contemptible 
habit of imputing low, mean ideas to women, and putting a 
uastv interpretation on their innocent words. They’re always 
it it. ‘ To the pure,’ Mr. Babbon, ‘ all things are pure.’” 

“ It’s a habit I never practised,” declared Mr. Babbon, 
“ and I’m not likel3" to begin now. You misunderstood me 
because I smiled. But I think the commentators are not 
exactly agreed, as touching the original cup-and-platter.” 

“Oh, dear me!” cried Mrs. Babbon; “there 3'ou 
go again. Cup-and-platter, ding-dong ! Now, I’ve got some- 
thing else to say. Phoebe is going to learn how a house 
should be kept, — every part of it, and every detail. I don’t 


PHCEBE'S EDUCATION. 


235 


care if she grows up to marry a millionnaire and have twenty 
servants. She must be familiar with the subject herself. I 
believe in a woman being the intelligent mistress of her own 
household. No girl that I bring up shall be committed to 
the mercy and contempt of scullions. No, indeed. And if 
there’s any value in precept and example, she will be practi- 
cal and thorough. Whatever she begins, that shall she finish. 
Then, when I hand her over to her future husband, my duty 
will have been done.” 

“ She may not find one,” surmised Mr. Babbon. “ They’re 
growing harder to capture, every 3^ear.” 

“ It doesn’t give me the least concern,” was the positive 
reply. “There’s always chances enough for those who de- 
serve them. Show me a good, wholesome girl, sound in 
mind and body, correctly trained and properly cared for, and 
I’ll show you a mate for her in a twinkling. If not, let my 
right hand forget its cunning. I don’t remember any diffi- 
culty in m}^ own case.” 

“ There wasn’t an}',” Mr. Babbon briskly admitted. “ One 
glance finished the business for me.” 

The tone of this brief speech was gallant, if the meaning 
was ambiguous. 

“ Well, you know you alwaj's did end by having your own 
way,” was the submissive answer. “ If she’s going to the 
high school, the sooner she begins the better.” 

In this wise was Phoebe freed from the shackles of Deacon 
Biggot’s district-school. Now, for the first time, she enjoyed 
the advantages of good instruction. The new teacher had 
no goggle-game to play, no round-turn to practice, no pit- 
falls to dig. He neither gasped, nor bit the air, nor bleated 
like a goat. He wasted no time in parables, which the pupils 
suspected to be wilful lies, nor did he institute unfavorable 
comparisons -between them and imaginary little saints who 
flourished and perished in remote times and distant places ; and 
in all these respects, he differed from Deacon Biggot. Phoebe 
was delighted at the change. With unremitting diligence 
she applied herself to her books, for a new and powerful in- 
centive was ever present, — the fear of being too far out- 
stripped by Dan. Besides, her adoptive mother maintaijied 
strict supervision over her studies, as well as over her school- 
ing in domestic economy. Every week she received a letter 


230 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


from Dan, and finally Dan himself came for his first vaca- 
tion. Then how bright the da3^s, and how short! Glowing 
descriptions of college life, the story of the Areopagus, of Dan’s 
defence before the Faculty, and of his acquittal there, new 
tales of mythology, and the weeks had vanished. He was 
gone again. The months rolled round bringing other holi- 
day's, — and with them changes. Mrs. Babbon’s new enter- 
prise, undertaken as a sacred duty, grew to be an ambition 
as well. Much secret comfort was derived from the high re- 
solve to show the mothers of that village, at least, how a girl 
should be reared. Nor unrewarded was the care devoted to 
this purpose. Phoebe gave promise of fulfilling her adoptive 
mother’s expectations. She grew in stature and in beauty. 
In the high school, as in the district-school, she became a 
favorite with all. She was the life of the sewing cir- 
cle, — an association “ of devout women, not a few.” 
In the church she was an object of adoration to 
y’outhful swains. For her sake, the hoarded shillings 
of many a farmer-boy were squandered in pomade and 
pocket mirrors, and tawny necks submitted patiently to 
the yoke of galling collars, while more cosmopolitan lads, 
from the village centre, even filched the pennies from tin 
savings-banks of infant brothers to purchase distinguishing 
adornment. It seemed as if Cupid had joined the march of 
modern progress, and exchanged his bow for some noiseless 
Galling gun. At home, Phoebe was the light of the house- 
hold. Dismal, indeed, it would have been without her songs 
and merry laugh, for a gloom was settling there. She alone 
could bring a grim smile to one face, from which all mirth 
and gladness was surely departing. Time wore on. Dan’s 
visits grew shorter. He came, too, at lengthening inter- 
vals, and sometimes he aimed a light shaft of playful rail- 
lery at hat or dress, provoking witty repartees, for in such 
friendly contest Phoebe could take effective part. But, in 
the solitude of her own room, she shed bitter tears, thinking 
of her scanty wardrobe, of the dresses she had made over 
and the many times she had trimmed her hat anew, in an- 
ticipation of Dan’s visits. The half-forgotten story of Dido 
came back to her remembrance, and dwelt there. Her merry 
laugh was less frequently heard. Her songs lost their glee. 
Slowly the gathering gloom was encroaching upon the Light 


PTKEBE'S EDUCATION. 


237 


of the Household. The homestead, too, had changed its 
aspect, these last few years. The buildings were out of 
repair, — the law.ns neglected, — the graveled walks, once 
so neat and trim, now overgrown with grass. But all over 
the place the flowers bloomed, as beautiful as ever, for the; 
indefatigable mistress weeded, watered, and dug around 
tliem, as diligently as twent}^ years before. Little 
change had been wrought in her, and none in her in- 
domitable spirit. Time, all-powerful elsewhere, seemed 
powerless here. No wrinkle marred her pale, oval face, 
except fine, radial lines below the temples, engraved there, as 
it were, by diverging rays shot from her glittering eyes. 
Hardly a silver thread shone in her jet-black hair. Her 
dresses, however, as Dan observed, were the very same that 
she had worn before he went to college. But a marked 
change was coming over Mr. Babbon. His hair was fast 
turning white, and his determined face grew thin and hag- 
gard, like a gaunt mask of rigid metal. The firm step be- 
came irresolute and feeble, the once portly form shrunken 
and bowed down. It was easy to see that he had nearl}^ 
reached the end of his resources, and was devoting his re- 
maining strength to putting off, as long as possible, the evil 
day that was inevitable. He could not fail to perceive that 
envious neighbors were aware of his misfortunes and exulted. 
Former friends of whom he had borrowed, at exorbitant 
rates, haunted his house and dogged his steps. Even those 
whom his purse had saved from ruin, and whose worthless 
notes la}' forgotten in his desk, vented loud abuse. Now 
that his downfall was imminent, human nature would have 
belied itself, if his character had remained unassailed. Para- 
sites of his prosperity could not sufficient!}^ traduce him. 
His business and his domestic affairs were the theme of 
gossip ; and still would he sit at his desk, mechanically 
searching his papers, sometimes burying his face in his 
hands, sometimes pacing the fioor with a weary look, often 
sighing, and often repeating, “ Your orators will ever pray.’* 
Afternoons, when the patch of sunshine was creeping over 
the carpet, Mrs. Babbon would bring out her work-basket, 
full to the brim, for, though there were no new articles to 
make, there were old ones to mend. Quiet bliss was found 
in the text, “Blessed are they that mourn,” for she still 


238 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


mourned over her husband’s devotion to Mammon, not for- 
getting to remind him that “ their worm dieth not, and their 
fire is not quenched,” nor failing to declare that Gridly was 
a canker-worm, sent by Providence to gnaw his stubborn 
heart. And this with a certain melancholy triumph ; for the 
fact that the worm had come, and begun his ravages, was a 
vindication of former prophecy. Often he seemed not to 
hear, or not to heed her. What wonder if he had little heart 
left, after all those 3^ears of ceaseless gnawing? But for 
the work-basket he cherished a kindly feeling, — it was a 
safety-valve. He could not but think that the same Provi- 
dence that sent the canker-worm, had also bestowed the 
work-basket, and, if ever he murmured at the one, he gave 
thanks for the other. If ever he cursed the worm, he blessed 
the basket. 

At intervals came letters from Gridl}’, filled with threats 
and coarse insults, but Gridly’s visits had ceased long ago. 
Carman, Spelter, & Co. had been forced to a settlement. 
The funds, however, were in the custody of the Court, and 
a new lawsuit was now pending, entitled Gridly vs. Babbon. 
Gridly was huriying his plots to consummation. His toils 
were spread witli deep cunning. By this time, it was almost 
a certainty' that the Law, which, for the most part, aims at 
justice, though seldom securing it, would strip the honest 
man of his possessions and give them to the rogue. Only by 
denying the rest of the family many comforts could Mr. Bab- 
bon defray his son’s expenses. But this was kept from Dan. 
That they were in straitened circumstances he was, indeed, 
aware. He could see it in the decaying homestead and the 
stern economy practiced there. Yet no one, except his 
father, suspected the full extent of their misfortunes. But 
the blows fell faster and faster, as Gridlj^’s plots developed, 
until it became impossible for the father to supply the funds 
necessary to support his son at college. Dan was nearly 
through, and, vacation over, he had gone back for the final 
year. Those few weeks had been the unhappiest of all 
Phoebe’s life. Dan was changed. His former ga^^ety had 
disappeared. He was moody, restless, dissatisfied, — eager 
to be back at college. Almost every day he was gone from 
home, roving alone, with gun or fishing-rod. Only now and 
then a fiash of his former self. A casual remark about some 


PH(EBE'S EDUCATION. 


239 


handsome girl whom he had seen in the gallery of the col- 
lege chapel, and Phoebe’s torment was begun. Once, a half- 
finished jest at country dresses ; answered now by no quick 
repartee, — only by unseen quivering of every fibre, repressed 
in agony, — and at last the story of Dido was a tragedy, 
wherein the actors took living form before Phoebe’s eyes, 
and whose scenes haunted her, night and day. She under- 
stood not that the shadow on the household had reached 
Dan, at last, and was resting on him. She must win back 
the love which she feared was departing, though so priceless, 
and so closely blended with all her hopes. She reproached 
herself with her poverty, thought bitterly of her old-fashioned 
clothing, and resolved that Dan should never again have 
cause to laugh at her outlandish attire. There was in Mr. 
Babbon’s hands a small inheritance, left by her aunt. She 
determined to ask for some of it, and to select the prettiest 
fabrics she could find. They should be made up by the most 
fashionable dressmaker, and Dan should know nothing of it 
until he came home. Then she would be ready for him ; and, 
with a thrill of triumph, she thought that perhaps he would 
find her as stylish and as handsome as the one he had seen 
in the gallery^ of the college chapel. Bright visions followed 
this resolve, but they were dispelled, for the moment, by a 
peremptory voice. 

“Now, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Babbon, “ a watery-eyed girl 
is something I never tolerate. No more does any woman of 
true refinement. My mother never did. ‘ With an high 
hand, and an outstretched arm,’ brought she me out of that 
bondage. Sit down at your piano and play this. And re- 
member that expression is something different from force.” 

She unrolled a sheet of music, new to Phoebe, and handed 
it to her. Phoebe sat down obediently, and play-ed, with a 
facility and correctness which showed that, in her musical 
education, Mrs. Babbon had been as good as her word ; and 
the countenance of the worthy lady intimated, meanwhile, 
that she was looking down upon thousands of incapable 
mothers, whose helpless daughters were floundering in the 
mire of tinky-tanky ; displaying to them one who had been 
brought safely over, and led far beyond.. The piece con- 
cluded, she simply said, “ Phoebe, you’ve played it well ; 
you’ll play it better, yet. One other thing: remember to 


240 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


seek the kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all 
other things shall be added unto you ! ” 

Thereupon she went out, and Phoebe started in quest of 
Mr. Babbon. He was sitting alone, under the great elm, an I 
he, too, was thinking of Phoebe’s inheritance. In his great- 
est straits, hitherto, he had refrained from touching it. But 
now the time had come when this fund must be drawn upon, 
or Dan must leave college ; and of that was he thinking 
as he sat there, holding a letter from his son. Phoebe drew 
near and looked wistfully at the letter, recalling the time 
when every missive in that well-known hand contained a 
note for her. 

“ Pa, have yon a letter from Dan? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, daughter,” he replied, “and he feels down-hearted. 
I should be sorry to have him leave college.” 

Phoebe was startled. “ Whj^ pa ! ” she cried, “he isn’t 
going to leave, is he? Does he want to come home? ” 

“No, but I’m afraid he must,” he answered. “I find 
myself so involved, I don’t see any waj^, at present, to raise 
funds enough to keep him there.” 

As Mr. Babbon made the admission a painful expression 
rested on his fiice. In an instant Phoebe’s decision was 
made. Her cherished purpose was relinquished with sudden 
joy. “ Dear pa,” she cried, “ I want you to do one thing 
to make me perfectly happy. Take my money and send it 
to Dan ! You know I can’t use it ; and, besides — besides, 
I’d rather he would have it, anyway. Will you, pa? And 
don’t let a single soul know about it.” 

“ Daughter, it shall be as you wish,” Mr. Babbon re- 
plied, and then walked quickly off. There were traces of 
emotion on those iron features, that he did not care to have 
seen. But Phoebe was comforted. While arranging once 
more the faded ribbons and fiowers, over which she had 
shed so many tears, she planned how she would tempt Dan 
to make merry at her expense, and laughed to herself, think- 
ing of the secret she would have, and of the time when he 
should discover her sacrifice. To Mr. Babbon it was a great 
relief to know that his son was enabled to finish his college 
course. He had struggled in vain against the rising tide of 
misfortune, and knew that the time was not distant when 
pinching poverty would compel him to give up the appear- 


MR. FLINTEYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


241 


ance of respectability he was striving to maintain. All his 
hopes now centred in Dan. Utterly broken down by the 
burden he had borne so long, he began to lean upon his son^ 
and to look forward, with one last hope, to the time when he 
should retrieve their fallen fortunes. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

MR. FLINTEYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


In the Clover-Leaf the happy Brand was busy with his cate- 
chism. By the table sat Mr. Flinteye, in dreamy content- 
ment, his fertile fancy unfolding successive scenes in the hal- 
cyon days to come. His tremulous hand toyed fondly with 
a tumbler of that compound which he had described to Gridly 
as an ambitious drink, and, while the beverage slowly pur- 
sued the path of many predecessors, the tranquillity of his 
countenance crept down to the muscles of his arm until that 
uneasy member was lulled to rest. When the last drops were 
drained he walked behind the counter and deposited a bottle in 
his pocket. Then he sallied forth, audibl}^ remarking, Two 
to one she loves her little tipple.’’ With a gentle effort at a 
graceful carriage, he wended his way towards Gridly’s abode 
while his apprentice stood watching with admiration and 
delight. 

“ Oh, but ain’t he gorgeous ! ” exclaimed the Brand. “^How 
gay an’ airy he trundles along ! ” 

Presently the Old Bummer mounted the steps and knocked. 
The door was opened by the Snib, and the boy saw his 
master disappear inside the portal with a gallant bow. 

I wish’t I could tumble to his little olio,” said the Brand, 
and then he returned to his task. The wood-cuts that 
adorned the New England Primer were fresh in his memory, 
and in imitation thereof he worked diligently with his pen- 
cil. Upon a blank page grew the rude sketch of an emaci- 
ated dwarf, sitting on the ground with a funnel in his up- 
turned mouth, and his head fast wedged between the knees 
of a giant. Into the funnel the giant was pouring a stream 


242 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


from an inexhaustible bottle which bore the label “ Calvin* 
Medsun,” and above the design appeared the couplet, 

This medsun makes 
Bad stummik-aches. 

With deep satisfaction the young artist was surveying his 
work when Mr. Flinteye returned. 

“ Bubber,” said the latter, “prehaps you notice the Old 
Gentleman retires in good order.” 

“ Like the songs says,” replied the Brand, — “ ‘ Here’s my 
razor in good order, magnum bonum, just as I bought 
her.’ ” 

“ Yes, Bubber, very simyular to that,” returned the other, 
“ Prehaps not quite magnum bonum, but undoubtably in good 
order.” 

“ Mr. Flinte3^e, did you find out how the land wos layin’ ? ” 

“ Methink I did, and I call it a tough soil, Bubber, mighty 
tough. The Old Gentleman, in his day, has worked somje 
astonishing rough pieces of p’operty, but that there little 
piece do beat ’em all.” 

“ Have 3’ou weakened on it?” inquired the Brand. “ You 
don’t look so cranky now, nor 3^ou don’t brace back no more. 
Be you wore out, playin’ of 3"our figger ? ” 

“Not wore out, but inortyufied,” explained Mr. Flinteye. 
“ That’s all. Badly mort3'ufied. And a very sore thing it is 
for an old gentleman, to reach the p’int where he thinks he’s 
got a sure thing, and then, at the crityucal moment, to find 
out he’s lost his hold. But I knowed full well them halshon 
days was fied and gone to j’ine onto the past. Youth will be 
served. I was in too much hurry. But Gridly wanted me to 
rush the thing. If I’d gone at a more modyurate pace, 
maybe I’d fetched that bird, in time.” 

“Wos it a pigeon?” inquired the Brand, with kindling 
interest. “If it wos, show me where he’s baited! I’ll 
fetch him with a hoss-hair.” 

“No, not a pigeon,” returned Mr. Flinteye. “ ’Twas a far 
ruggeder bird. I’ve sometimes heard it called a duck, and 
sometimes a quail.” 

“ Stones are the things for ducks,” declared the Brand ; 
“ but, for a quaild, you’ve got to set a twitch-up. Man3"’s 


MR, FLINT EYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


243 


the one I’ve rigged with a hoss-bair snare. You’d ought to 
took me with a’ou. That’s where you missed it.” 

The Old Bummer sat musing, with a puzzled air, as if 
considering a knotty question. 

“ It’s hard to tell,” he remarked to some invisible auditor, 
‘‘ whether he’s got more talent as a dipper- in or a brancher- 
out;” and, having administered this mild reproof, he con- 
tinued: “to return to our main: the Old Gentleman tried 
his best, but couldn’t bring down his bird. Very mortyufy- 
ing it is, but very true. Mr. Flinteye has mtide his first 
failure. Never will he try again. No ; the Old Gentleman’s 
lost his grip, and might as well hang up his harp.” 

“Just like the song says,” explained the Brand, — “‘Then 
hang up the fiddle an’ the bow'.’ That’s the music fora little 
bummer. Go ’way with your h3'mn-books an’ fetch on 3'our 
song-books ! That’s wot my sould sa3's, every time. She’d 
uv said so long ago if she’d dared speak loud. I expect a 
sould sometimes gets stunted, like a bod3', when every other 
sould is down on it. Now, Purp never had one, an’ that’s 
where he wos in luck ; but, if he had, I’d never wore it out 
for him. He might uv run it on his own hook, — I’d uv let 
him steer it hisself. Come to think of it, I’d like to know 
wot’s the use, -anyhow, of crowding a lot of soulds into one 
narrer road an’ stoning of ’em along. No wonder., if they 
jump over the fence. I bet a sould wants elbow-room, 
don’t 3'ou, Mr. Flinteye?” 

“ Now, don’t go branching out on the soul question ! ” said 
the Old Bummer. “ Next 3'ou’ll be harpin’ on thcolog3'.” 

“I onl3" wish’t I could hop on it,” declared the Brand in 
vengeful tones. “ I’d never let up till one of us wos done 
for. It made me weaken when I wos 3’oung, but it couldn’t 
do it now. ’Twos weiy near breaking the child o’ Satan ; 
but I bet it couldn’t even bend the Little Bummer. Now, 
take a old deacon — ” 

“1 won’t take anything of the kind,” interposed Mr. 
Flinteye. “ Was I to hazard my opinion, I should say 3Wd 
better take a rest.” 

“ I only meant take him by the crop, if 3'ou ever get near 
enough,” explained the Brand, by way of exculpation, 
“ an’ make a plant of him. That’s all they’re good for.” 

“Keep on I keep on!” the Old Bummer pettishly ex- 


244 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


claimed. “ Get your breath, then rattle awaj" again ! Onh' 
there won’t be anybod}^ to listen. I’m going down-stairs.” 

Accordingly Mr. Flinte3'e left the room, and the Brand 
reapplied himself to his literary work. Upon a fresh page 
he slowl}" printed the following : — 

“ Wot’s the cheef end of a decun? A decun’s cheef end 
is a-doctorin’ with Calvin-pizun, and a-keepin’ of it up forever. 

“Wot fellers have to ketch it the most? Little fellers 
wot can’t help theirselves.” 

The top of the page was embellished with a diminutive 
figure in rapid flight, a streamer fluttering backward from 
his trousers, and proclaiming in bold letters, — 

No more for me 
Says little B. 

Suddenly the Brand slid his book inside his coat as the 
opening door gave notice of a new arrival. The visitor was 
Gridly. He walked straight to the bo}", and stood looking 
him in the face. The Brand thrust his hands deep into his 
pockets, and, with a nonchalant but abortive effort to come 
it with one e^ye, inquired, — 

“ Wol, wlio be you?” 

“ You're a bright youth, I’U swear!” returned Gridly. 
“ What’s your name ? ” 

“I has warious ones,” replied the Brand; “but if a 
reg’lar is wot 3^ou’re arter, it’ll be a tenpence.” 

“You’ve got the devil’s own cheek, an3’how!” pursued 
Gridly, trying to embarrass the boy with the fixedness of 
his gaze. But the Brand, perfectly unembarrassed, replied, — 
“ Sa3% mister, wot a gay qjq you carr3’, to keep out for 
cops I ” 

“ Come, where’s the old man?” demanded Gridly. 

“Just like the song says,” returned the Brand — 

“ Where, oh where, is good old Moses ? 

Where, oh where, is good old Moses ? ” 

Having sung two lines with exasperating indifference to 
his questioner, he whistled two more, spatting an aecompanl- 
raent upon his knees. 

“ Well, Bub,” said Gridly, “you’ve got a brilliant start. 


MR. FLINTEYE HANQS UP HIS HARP. 


245 


Keep on the way you’ve begun, and one of these da3’s you’ll 
turn out a great man. But ^^ou’ve seen me before ; so 3"ou 
needn’t play 3'ou don’t know me. I tell you I want the old 
man.” 

“ It’s hard telling where he be,” the Brand replied. “ That 
old gen’leman waries like a weasel. Now 3'ou see him and 
now you don’t. I’ll go up-garret and look. P’r’aps he might 
be up there, saying his'pra3^ers.” 

He shut the door behind him and crept softly down-stairs. 
Making his wa3^ across the cellar to where his master stood, 
in the door of their charnel vault, he whispered, “A man up- 
stairs.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Oh, a cove as wears a gay lantern ! ” 

“ Now, Bubber, you stop!” said Mr. Flinteye. “Don’t 
put an edge on the Old Gentleman. Barks the query, who?” 

“ Wol,” said the Brand, “I b’lieve he’s the feller wot 
owns that land wot you found out ’twos layin’ so terrible 
rough. Don’t you know ? — that there little piece o’ prop- 
ert3' wot 3’ou couldn’t fetch.” 

“I’d have you bear in mind,” returned Mr. Flinte3"e, 
with some asperit3^, “that the Old Gentleman’s heard enough 
about that let-down. Don’t 3'ou never fling it up at him ! ” 

With that admonition he led the way to the bar-room. 

“ And how are you., Mr. Gridly ? ” said he, as he drew a 
chair to the table where his visitor was seated. 

“Only tol-lol,” replied Gridly. “This cursed weather 
sends me down into the dumps.” 

“Just so,” assented the Old Bummer. “ Veiy dumpish 
weather, for the season. Bad for interior chills. Bubber, 
mix a pair. How’s your fam’ly, Mr. Gridly; and 3'our 
friend, the venyurable Jeremiah, how goes it with him? ” 

“ Old Jerry always has it lively,” said Gridly, with a grin. 
“Busy as the very devil. As for the family, I guess you 
ought to know something about that. How you getting 
along ? Made any points yet ? ” 

“Now, go easy; go middling easy!” returned the Old 
Bummer. “You may, prehaps, heard me say I’ve knowed 
people upset, travelling too rapid. But you’re right. I 
suppose I do know a trifle, now, about your fam’ly depart- 
ment.” 


246 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Hereupon Mr. Flinteye came it mysteriously with the left 
e3^e. Gridly chuckled and hissed. 

“I reckon you know your business,” said he. “You’ll 
fix the thing in time. But I want you to hurry up. Yes, 
Flinteye, I guess you’ll fetch it.” 

“1 bet he won’t,” interposed the attentive Brand. “Not 
without he sets a twitch-up.” 

“ Bubber, 3*ou bring them nips and clear!” commanded 
the Old Bummer, and the Brand reluctantly obeyed. 

“He’s a cheeky little devil,” said Gridly, as the door 
closed*. 

“Yes,” assented the other; “there’s a future ahead of 
that boy, if he only has the talent to grasp it.” 

“I’ll risk him,” returned Gridly. “Cheek beats talent 
in the long run. Got acquainted with m}^ family 3’et?” 

“That’s right,” replied Flinte3"e, with an approving nod. 
“It does me good to see a man stick to his main. Is Mr. 
Flinte3’e acquainted with 3’onr fam’ly? Oh, 3’es ; slightually, 
I should sa3' he was. And what an int3’uresting fam’13' ! How 
peaceful and serene! Sprouts the quer3% is it always thus? 
Blossoms the answer, p’obably not. Undoubtabl3^ it varies. 
Why so? Because, as a gen’ral rule, all fam’lies have their 
little variations, at times, in p’int of the peaceful and serene. 
But, prehaps you notice them nips are mulled, and ought to 
be nailed. With m3’ respects, Mr. Gridly, here’s nailing.” 

Having nailed, in concert with his host, Gridly grumbled, 
“ You’re dev’lish long-winded. Have you dropped in 3’et?” 

Whereto the other replied, “ Certingl3’ have I dropped in. 
Veiy few moments have fled and went since I dropped out 
again.” 

Gridl3’’s e3*es sparkled with eager interest. 

“ Noio 3’ou’re talking,” he cried. “That’s the style. ‘ Don’t 
waste no time snibbing round, but sail right in,’ sa3’s deny 
D. Made any headwa3^ 3'et?” 

“ Don’t rush me too rapid,” returned the deliberate Old 
Bummer. “ Just let me tell my own stoiy in my own little 
wa3’. Looking at our main from trunk to bough, and from 
stem to leaflet, I begin at the root. The foundation for the 
day was boiled eggs and mackerel, cemented with tansy-and- 
gin. Warm work, you see, is br’iling of a mackerel, besides 
being nat’rally a very thirsty fish.” 


MR. FLINTEYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


247 


“ What’s the use of all that gabble?” demanded Gridly. 
“ Why don’t you come to the point?” 

“Prehaps you can tell it better,” said the Old Bummer. 
“ If so, I’m ready to listen.” 

“ Never mind ; grind it out ! ” was the sulky answer. 

“Well,” resumed Flinteye, “I made all needful investment 
in the way of filet, and begun to polish and garnish my 
frame. Now and then would I fortyuty m3' ambition with 
another gin-and-tans}'. And so the time fleets by, until I am 
polished to a degree where I methink I give some faint idea 
of what I was in m3^ palmy days.” 

“ D — n it ! I can stand it, if you can,” growled Gridl3% 
settling himself in his chair. “ Take your time ! Jog 
along ! ” 

“ Don’t prod me too severe!” rejoined Flinte}^. “All 
3'ou’ve got to do is merrily to listen. Now then, out I start 
on the trail. I see my game at the window, and set a modest 
play on m3' Agger. With a roving air I ramble along, past 
3'oiir Den and back. So far so good. Another tansy-and- 
gin. When I amble forth again, 1 see my idol still at the 
window, ever setting, ever setting, as the poet hath it. I 
strike a lusty gait. M3’ naught3' e3’es turn toward my 
clnu'mer like the needle to the Pole. I wear a wicked look. 
M3’ Agger plays to win. Then I complete a respectful, but at 
the same time a very ambitious bow. One little sign of en- 
couragement I think I see, — merrily the ghost of a smile.” 

“ Blast her eyes!” put in Gridly. “Of course you did. 
I alwa3's thought she would if she had a chance.” 

“Now don’t flare up so restive!” remonstrated the Old 
Bummer. “ If .3"ou know so much about it, prehaps I’d bet- 
ter let you tell the story. But, was I to hazard my opinion, 

I don’t think I should blame her very much. She couldn’t 
kelp it, — I know I done it quite seductive.” 

“Oh, Lord!” cried Gridly, with a burst of disgust, — 
“ but jog on ! ” 

“ Well, then,” resumed the other, “ back I come to reflect 
on it. To m3'self I say, ‘ Mr. Flinteye, the star of hope is 
rising. In the language of your friend Gridly, sail your boat ! 
The prospect brightens, so move along bold and free, bear- 
ing in mind that “faint heart ne’er won fair lady.” Two to 
one she loves her little tipple.’ So, I pocket a bottle, and out 


248 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


1 sail. Do I falter? Not a bit. Very soon I enter your Den, 
and grasp j^our lad}^ by the hand in a way that speaks of na- 
tive modest}^ fighting against guilty ambition. The lady 
seems a trifle timid. But 3^0111' humble servant regards that 
a little flourish of female art.” 

“Of course it was,’^ interrupted Gridl}", with a snarl. 
“ Td bet a hundred dollars on it. They’re all alike.” 

“ Oh, well,” said the other, “ if you want to branch out, 
Tm with you, a moment. Who can blame the dear little 
creatures? I tell 3’ou they have need of every flourish, when 
men like Mr. Flinte3’e are on their track. But to get back 
to our main : the first look showed my path was by no means 
rosy. ‘ However,’ says I, ‘ Mr. Gridly is in a hurry. Go 
in, Flinte3^e, and win!’ Do I go in? Beyond a doubt. 
Chirps the query, do I win ? Squeaks the answer, methink 
not any to brag of.” 

“ Hey ! ” snapped Gridly, “ what’s that?” 

The Old Bummer came it in a deprecatory way, under the 
gaze of those ferret eyes. 

“ Go easy I ” he urged. “ Now, do go eas3", Mr. Gridly ! 
Don’t work yourself into no sweat. How can 3’ou expect a 
man to grasp a subject all to once, when it ramyufies and 
branches out, so outrageous wide? Nobod3’ could doit, let 
alone one as has met an unexpected pull-back and been 
floored. I can only say that Snib o’ yourn is a most uncom- 
mon rugged bird.” 

“ Look here I ” cried Gridly, “I don’t want all this gab- 
ble. I want to know in plain English what points 3"ou’ve 
made.” 

“ Where’s the good of waxing heated?” returned the Old 
Bummer. “Now simmer down, and let me tell my little 
story in my own little way. On the start, I own I felt a trifle 
rattled. ’Tvvas clear I’d met a new sort of bird. Rather a 
misty look about her eyes, like it was very muggy and foggy 
in the brain. Trained down too fine, I should say, by do- 
mestic discipline. ’Twas very hard to wake her up. But I 
warmed to the work, and, little b}' little, she got used to m3" 
comp’ny. Now, what I wanted was for us two to get to tip- 
pling, in a social, free-and-easy wa3". A great thing is a 
stimulant to open the female mouth, and, likewa3"s, their 
heart. But how to do it was the quer3". I turned the thing 


MR. FLINTEYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


249 


in mind, and returned it. Finally, I produced the bottle, 
with the sentyument that it was a trifling tribute to my fas- 
cinating little neighbor. Wasn’t that gallant? Well, I no- 
ticed she wasn’t ver}’ restless under that there well-timed 
compliinent — ” 

“ D — n her ! ” cried Gridly ; “of course she wasn’t. But 
all right. Go ahead ! ” 

“ Soon we got to sampling of it,” resumed the other, “ and 
I begun to spread on the compliments with a dripping brush. 
I hazarded the opinion she was of a s^dph-like form, and told 
her, plump and plain, sho struck me simyular to a vision o’ 
beaut}". Meanwhile, noticing she was shy of her stimulant, 
I begged her to pull away on the same, seeing as ’twas a 
capital remyudy for the nerves. And all this time, mind 
you, 'I was keeping up a very seductive action of the eyes. 
Still, the conversation rather flagged and dragged until your 
lady led out onto the funeral question. Then we had it 
lively. We went all over the different materials, and I gave 
her my ideas on the various woods. Still, the coffin question 
didn’t, by no means, harmyunize with the object of Mr. Flint- 
eye’s visit. So, he veered round. It would be a good thing, 
methought, to open a little fam’ly breach. I dropped a hint 
or two, very careless, about seeing you in the theayter with 
a lady, and hazarded the opinion what was fair for one was 
fair for two. But I didn’t make much on that line. She 
didn’t care a pin. Disciplined far beyond tliat, I should say. 
Then 1 branched out onto a lonely life. Told her how lone- 
some it was for me, and how I was a sociable man by nature, 
and so on,’ — keeping my eye out, all the time, to see how the 
toddy was working. VVell, I kept vibrating away on that 
lonesome string till I had brought out all the music in it. 
Then I planted down* the belief that, if I was so lucky as to 
have a better half, 1 wouldn’t by no means folly the exam- 
ple of some of my married friends. I would cultyuvate her 
to the last.” 

“Oh, d — n‘it!” cried Gridly. “What’s the use of all 
that balderdash ? Why didn’t you rush in ? ” 

“Oh, yes; that’s all very well,” replied Flinteye. “I 
consider I did rush in, altogether too fast. What I had 
ought to done was draw my visit to a graceful close, and 
pave the way for another. Why didn’t I? Because Mr. 


250 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Gridly was in a hurry. What follied? Merrily this: Mr. 
Flinte\'e got floored. He rushed in too rapid, and down he 
went. Now, here’s the way ’twas done. I had spread the 
first coat very thick and rubbed it in. My brush was dipped 
for the finishing gloss, and I rose up to strike a posture. 
But I suppose I rather overplayed it, ’cause your lady asked 
was it the drinkin’-paral’is or spazzums on the spine. Just 
think of that! What a query to a man as has been, in his 
da}^ a gay Lo-Phario ! A man what, in his halshon days, 
used to walk and stalk at will over bleeding hearts ! Well, 
I done as you wanted. It wasn’t my way, but you ivould 
have it. So, Mr. Flinteye rushed in. Ornamenting his coun- 
tenance with his most inducing smile, he answered, not 
paral’is and not spazzums, but Agger. ’Twas that was 
working in his heart of hearts and quivering all through his 
frame. Howe’er divine was her face, far, oh ! far diviner was 
her fairy Agger. ‘ Good land ! Mr. Flinteye,’ says she, ‘ how 
can you talk so ridiculous? What would my Peter say?’ 
And then your lady shivered a bit, like she feared there was 
danger of her Peter dropping in, verj^ inconvenient. 

“ Never mind 3'our Peter,” sa^'s I. “ He’ll never know it. 
Meanwhile, 3'Ou dear little, wicked fairy, pull awa3" on 3"our 
stimulant ! 1 know it warms 3’our heart, — I see the tell- 

tale color rising on that there lily cheek. That sight, ma’am, 
would ‘ stir a fever in the blood of age.’ ’Tis doing of it 
now. Methought I noticed a little, feeble flutter, like she 
was trembling for the surrender. ’Tis the last throe of con- 
science, methought. But a few fleeting moments showed me 
it was a very different move. My mistake was reading that 
there flutter wrong. But I surged ahead. The time seemed 
ripe to strike a poetyucal string. So, playing my remnant 
of a figger, not quite so random, prehaps, on account of what 
she said about spazzums, but, still, prett3" deuced random, I 
opened out my arms and begged her to ‘ come, love, come, 
in my little canoe, where the sky is bright and the sea is 
blue.’ Did she come? Methink not. What did she do? 
Wh3^, she squared away and kept both eyes out for a buff. 
Now, you must allow, Mr. -Gridly, the aspect was gloomy. 
Methought the star of Mr. Flinteye’s hopes was setting. 
There stood the Old Gentleman, very warm and thirst3’, and 
weakened beyond all tolyuration with playing of his figger, 


MR. FLINT EYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 2r>l 

— his right arm working like it was tossed by a raging sea. 
And there st9od the object of his — of his — well, of his 
mistake., looking by no means captivated, but very fierce. 
’Twas a tight spot for Mr. Flinteye. He’s seen the day he 
was equal to a situation like that, but now he knows them 
days are fied and gone forever. Her lips shut like a turtle’s 
bill, and her ears was a-laying back. 1 knowed there wasn’t 
any time to lose.” 

“ What a d — d, infernal jackass ! ” roared Gridly. 

“ Not at all,” FIinte3^e calmly dissented. “ The jackass 
of the fam’ly wasn’t home. Besides, a jackass would gone 
slower, and, p’obably, had better luck. But that’s a branch- 
out. Once more I struck that poetjmcal string and sounded 
out, ‘ Oh, come, love, come ! Come with the lute ! Come 
with the lay !’ Did she come that time? Methink she did. 
Was it with the lute? Likeways with the lay? I should say 
not. Methink it was a dust-pan. But Mr. Flinteye is not 
the person to upset at the first hummock, nor the second. 
So, I plaj^ed mv remnant more random and reckless than ever, 
and murmured, ‘To the land where the purple — ’ I was 
going to add ‘ clusters,’ but my time was up. P’obably 3^our 
lady thought I was alludin’ to my own visage. Anyhow, 
there's where she landed, — on the ver}’ spot where it’s 
purplest. Think of that! What could Mr. Flinteye do, 
with situation arter situation crowding onto him like that? 
Only one thing; and that’s just w'hat he done. He put for 
the sheltering shadow of the Clover-Leaf. But still, I notice, 
lie retired in good order.” 

Gridly had been watching the Old Bummer’s features, 
devouring every syllable. As the final failure of his plan 
was disclosed, an expression of devilish malignit^^ rested on 
bis face. He dashed his fist upon the table, and glared at 
Flinte3'e like a wild beast. But the Old Bummer endured 
the scrutin3' with composure. His right arm, indeed, was 
tossing for its regular, but his flaming countenance wore a 
saddened look, as of one striving to bear up under the humil- 
iation of disgraceful defeat. 

/ “ Flinte3’e ! ” cried Gridly, ‘'I take 3-011 for a beat. Hand 
over that ten dollars ! ” 

“ Easy, now ! ” returned the other. “ Speeding too rapid 
towards a hummock, you might, prehaps, get upset. Don’t 


252 


.A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


go back on 3*0111* friend, and like\va3*s don't you call him a 
beat ! ” 

“ Oh, h — 1 ! ” retorted Gridly. “ 1 don’t want no talk. I 
want that said ten dollars.” 

“Right here,” the Old Bummer placidly rejoined, “two 
queries come a-looming up. Number one : do you see that 
ten anywhere round here? Number two: can yon notice the 
color of a greenhorn in Mr. Flinte3*e’s optic? To both them 
queries Mr. Flinteye sa3*s no. Why is that ten-spot invis- 
ible? Because invested. Look on this frame. Here .you 
see the money converted into various attractive forms, but 
do 3’ou notice it anywhere in the shape of a tenner? No, 
Mr. Gridl}". Your ten-spot is represented by sundries; and, 
as a ten-spot, never will you see it again. As for quer3" 
number two, Mr. Flinteye’s optic may p’obably emit some- 
thing of a Vermillion hue, but of a verdant never. Now we 
reach that theor3" of your’n, that your friend is a beat, ihe- 
haps he is, and prehaps not. He might vary there, accord- 
ing to whether he w^as dealing with a beat or not. But, grant 
he is one, and what follys? Why, merril3^ this: sim.vular to 
most beats, he don’t like to be told of it. Under the cir- 
cumstances, it do look exceeding like roughing it on your 
friend to call him a beat.” 

“Oh, h — 1 ! I say,” cried Gridl}*, dashing his fist upon 
the table again, with utter inability to express the devilish 
emotions seething within. 

“Just so, Mr. Gridly, just so,” the Old Bummer sooth- 
ingly assented. “ And very simyular it is to an observation 
of Mr. Flinte3’e’s, while retirin’ in good order.” 

“Oh, d — n your gabble!” clanked Gridly ’s iron tongue. 
“When you took that said contract 3*011 gave me to under- 
stand you could fill it ; made out 1113^ 8nib was good as gone. 
Say! didn’t 3*ou?” 

“ Veiy likely,” returned the other; “but, you see, Mr. 
Flinte3"e thought he knovved his bird. Leaps the queiy, did 
he know her? Drops the answer, methink he did not. But 
one thing I’ll tell you : Bubber wasn’t far off the track when 
he said that was a great eye for cops.” 

But Gridly heard not a word of this. Perfectly still he 
sat, staring into Flinteye’s face, but seeing neither him nor 
his bar-room, nor anything therein. It was as if 'all his 


MR. FLINT EYE HANGS UP HIS HARP. 


253 


nerves of sensation and voluntary motion were paralyzed. 
So far as external impressions were concerned he was, for 
the moment, dead. For him space and time were annihi- 
lated, so absorbed was he in the contemplation of one idea. 
Like an insect under the microscope, dim and distorted at 
first, but shooting swiftly into the focus, a fearful purpose 
rose within him, and at once assumed all its hideousness ; 
and if the faithful creature, who alone of all the world cher- 
ished a kindly feeling for him, could have taken one glance 
at that horrid picture, she Would have fled as fast and as far 
as wildest terror could have driven her. 

“ Not a very trusty eye, I should say,” continued the Old 
Bummer in silent soliloqu}’’, “ and not by any means an 
alluring one ; if anything a trifle bent the other way. Very 
brilliant, but unmerciful to the core. In color verging onto 
the greenish, — sira 3 ndar to a cat’s. A smallish eye, and one 
as is veiT, very unpleasant. Mighty cold, and glassy, and 
hard. An organ what you might suppose would fit very well 
into a vulture, and be most dreadful becoming. Was I to 
hazard my opinion on it, 1 should say the vulture what wore 
an e 3 "e like that would be an uncommon lucky bird. Bubber 
was certingly right.” 

Gridly shook off his fit of abstraction. His rage was 
succeeded by a certain jocular mood. “Well,” said he, 
“ I’ve lost that said ten dollars, and you’ve made it. Never 
mind ! It’s all right.” 

“Easy now!” replied the other. “Mr. Flinteye don’t 
look at the subject in that light. Considering what he’s 
wasted on t’ilet, and the vexation of being floored, he sa^’s 
it wouldn’t paid him if you’d come down with double the 
amount. Not at all it wouldn’t.” 

The Old Bummer expected another burst of fury ; but 
none came. Gridly was masking his fell design. 

“Two, d — d, old he sneered; “beat by a 

rickety Snib.” 

“ Speak for yourself, mine friend ! ” returned Flinteye. 
“ You talk for the jackass and I’ll do the same for the Old 
Gentleman 1 ” 

Gridly ’s mouth dilated, and a miniature billow of tobacco 
juice rolled over his beard, while that characteristic, infernal 
hiss issued from his brazen lips. 


254 A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 

“ The jig is up,” said he. “ The old Snib beat you on the 
very first round. I never thought she had the spunk. Oh, 
Lord ! I think I see that dust-pan lighting on your snout. 
How about them halshon days? Did .you ever stumble, 
tramping over them aforesaid bleeding hearts?” 

‘‘Don’t, Mr. Gridly ! ” expostulated the Old Bummer. 
“Don’t talk sarcastic! I’m already mortyufied beyond all 
human tolyuration. Think what it is for a man as was 
alwa3's apre^’and a victim to beauty to start out captivating, 
and to come back floored ! Consider what it is for a man as- 
used to trip and skip at will over bleeding hearts, and has 
reached his declining years by that pathway ! Think wliat 
a thing it is, I sa}'’, for a character like that to be waked to 
the fact that he’s lost his hold, — and waked exceeding rude ! 
It’s a terrible shock to Mr. Flintej^e. He’s had his little 
day, and now his harp is hung up ; but what’s the next 
move? Hain’t the venyurable deny no other tactics?” 

“No,” said Gridl}" ; “.you’ve spoiled the game, and now 
I’ve got to chance it. There’s one comfort, though ; she 
can’t last forever. I think she’s graduall^^ out of 

late/’ 

The Old Bummer’s e^’es gleamed a moment under his 
shaggy brows, as with the light of sudden and secret intelli- 
gence. Perhaps that was a part of Jeny’s tactics hidden 
from Gridly, — a spark of suspicion, flashing its signal and 
then dying out on the Old Bummer’s features, but living 
thenceforth within him, burning there, and growing into a 
blaze of revelation. 

“Just so, Mr. Gridl}^ just so,” said Flinteye, in a tone of 
gentle s.ympatli3' ; “she do look passing feeble. But the 
way them old birds will hang on is sometimes discouraging. 
Some of ’em goes out like the snuff of a candle, to be sure ; 
but, gen’ly speaking, they trench mighty close onto the im- 
mortal. They get light, and thin, and dry ; and you think 
they’re nigh steering for their happ3" homo. But they’re a 
very deceptions bird. They haven’t no idea of starting for 
their happy home. Was I to cast about for a simyulee, I 
should call upon the fruit tribe, and pears would sprout up. 
Now, them old birds are simyular to certing pears. How 
simyular? Why, the business of the fi uit is to get ripe in 
due time and drop off ; but now and then, late in the season, 


MR. GRIIJLY PROSECUTES A NEW EXTERlUilSE. '2'U) 


you’ll find a pear as is stung by vermin to a very sickly color, 
all wormy and wrinkled, blighted and blasted, but still 
a-hangin’ on. Keep 3^our e3’e on that pear, and what do you 
notice? Why, you see it turn from wrinkled to shrivelled, 
and from yeller to brown ; Time fans it with his fleeting 
wing, and it only grows diyer, and harder, and tougher. Rain 
soaks and pelts, but can’t soften it ; the sun tries Ids hand, 
but can’t melt it; Jack Frost pries away in vain, and the 
storms boom round ; but the}” can’t start it, either. There it 
hangs till winter; then, when it gets good and ready, down 
it goes. Just so 3’our lady ; prehaps not stung by vermin, 
but, nndoubtably, slung very frequent by her boss. Quite 
clear, she’s blighted and blasted. From the yeller and 
wrinkled, she’s verging onto the brown and shrivelled. But 
do she drop off? Groans tlie answer, methink she don’t.” 

“ Well,” said Gridl}’, rising to depart, “it strikes me her 
winter is drawing on. I’ll chance it, any’how. You’ve spoiled 
m^^ game, and all I’ve got to do now is wait for the heart- 
disease or something else.” 

With that hopeful remark Mr. Gridly departed, while the 
Old Bummer took his customary" refreshment, and fell into a 
train of profound meditation. 

“Now, Mr. Flinte^’e,” he soliloquized, “is anything 
a-looming up? In poetyucal strains, don’t y^ou think you see 
a glimmerin’ from afar? Hencefor’ard you have only one 
transcendant main. Keep one ev'e on your friend Gridly, and 
the other out to its utmost stretch for the venyurable Jerry’s 
tactics ! Strike away on your reg’lars, to repletion and re- 
repletion, but never forget y’our overshadowing main ! ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MR. GRIDLY PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 

When Gridly left the Clover-Leaf he passed his den with- 
out stopping to fell the Snib. His mind was busy^ with a plan 
to obviate, altogether, the necessity of felling her thence- 
forth, — a scheme whose fruition was destined to end for- 
ever the long term of her chastisement. Disappointment at 
Flinteye’s failure had provoked a furious outburst. But 


250 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Gridly’s rage was transitor3\ It had passed off while he 
sat riveting his e3^es on the Old Bummer, hearing no sound, 
seeing none of the objects around him, wholly insensible to 
all external impressions. He had dashed his fist upon the 
table, with unutterable spite, as he would have dashed it 
into the Snib’s face, had she been within reach, or into 
Flinteye’s had he dared. 

Vexations and perplexities of business are, not unfre- 
quenth% a well-spring of domestic bitterness ; and to the 
torpid Snib this was a familiar truth. When irritated b^^ 
any mischance, Gridl}?' found no little satisfaction in knock- 
ing down the helpless creature whom an inscrutable Provi- 
dence had committed to his den. But now he would not 
have stepped aside to give her a cuff. Had she appeared 
before him, no doubt the force of habit would have con- 
strained him to aim a stroke, but he would have kept on 
just the same, though his path had led over her. He walked 
at a swift pace, like one whose resolution does not falter. 
He chewed insatiably, as though his evil heart fed upon the 
tobacco in his cheek, and drew therefrom sweet nourishment 
and firm support. He kept up a silent conversation with 
himself. Ver^^ intent he seemed, upon important business. 
Perhaps he was communing with his tutelary Jerr^^, — taking 
advice of that cunning counsellor. Well-skilled were those 
sharp, steel-bright eyes, in physiognomy, and escaped by 
little of what transpired within their range. But they had 
not marked one sudden gleam under Flinte3’e’s shaggy 
brows; nor on his fiery face had the3' caught the light of 
the little signal spark glowing within. Perhaps the tutelaiy 
Jerry had other counsels, not shared by his protege, wherein 
such discovery had been inconvenient. 

‘‘ She’d walked into the trap fast enough,” muttered Grid- 
Iv, “if it had been anybodv’ but that blasted idiot. An3' 
of ’em will, when the3" like the bait. How can I tell but she 
did, after all? How do I know but that old liar beat me all 
round? He might want to keep the thing going. Maybe he 
was getting ready to strike for a bigger stake. He’d tiy it, 
I’ll swear, only the d — d old rum-sucker hasn’t got the 
wit, — brains all turned to rum. But I ain’t done with it, 
yet. I’ve got another deal, and this time I’ll play it alone. 
‘ The bird that can sing, and won’t; must be made to sing,’ 
says Jerr3" D.” 


MR. GRIDLT PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 257 


Many dram-shops flourished along that thoroughfare, and 
Gridlj drank in more than one. Not to overcome any 
scruples, for he had none, but because from those unfail- 
ing fountains flows inspiration for purposes like his, and 
substantial help in the prosecution of enterprises such as 
that in which he was now engaged. Almost as numerous as 
the dram-shops were the drug-stores on that route. Pre- 
tentious places, many of them, their doorway's the portals 
of garish Splendor, and each window a museum of mani- 
fold display, — pauper homes of glittering Ostentation, with 
boastful rows of porcelain pots hiding hollow Poverty under 
the round form of fat Plenty, and a wealth of show}- bottles 
wherein the healing tide was not far from its lowest ebb. 
Prosperous establishments these seemed to an uninitiated 
and unreasoning public, discovering huge profits, and reckon- 
ing fabulous gains to the account of the shabb}" proprietor. 
One of these Gridly entered, where master and clerks were 
in a whirl of business. The place was full of people. One 
caller was consulting the city-directory with two others com- 
peting for the next turn. Several children clamored for gum- 
drops and licorice root, while a pilfering boy lounged near 
the door. One purchased a lead-pencil with due care,* and 
presently returned for a sheet of paper. Another desired to 
add a few more trifles to his long biennial account, and re- 
quested a statement of items up to date. Five cents worth 
of wax was dispensed with a gift of alum. A buxom cham- 
bermaid bargained shrewdly for pomade, and a bashful 
maiden softly uttered her blushing request for a dose of 
castor-oil. A packet of toothpicks was prepared for de- 
livery by the porter. Several demanded an immediate 
preparation of their prescriptions. There were sales of 
tooth-powders, face-powders, baby-powders, condition- 
powders, Dover’s-powders ; and to one callow youth was 
handed out a harmless compound of inert materials, on 
which be founded bright but delusive hopes, and which he 
sought under the whispered name of love-powders. Many 
transactions in postage stamps also swelled the receipts, if 
not the profits. Gridly watched his chance and made known 
his errand. 

“ What do you wish to use it for? ” inquired the druggist. 

“ For rats,” was the reply. 


258 


A YOUNG DISCrULE. 


“Have you a prescription for it?” pursued the other, 
scanning his customer more narrowly. 

“ rd like to know,” grumbled Gridly, “if* I’ve got to get 
a doctor for rats. I don’t know any rat-doctor.” 

“ You must excuse me,” answered the druggist. “ I can’t 
sell you that without a doctor’s order. It’s against the law.” 

Whereupon Gridly made haste to depart, the dialogue 
having already drawn more attention to him than he found 
desirable. 

“That fellow’s a Ro3ml-Arch fraud,” said he, resuming 
his rapid pace, but directing his steps towards a different 
quarter. “ He’d fork it over, fast enough, if I’d bid up, and 
no witnesses round.” 

Turning into a street of respectable dwellings, he soon 
espied the object of his present quest. It was a doctor’s 
sign. But a horse and gig, waiting before the door, gave 
notice that the doctor was at home, and, for the execution 
of Gridly’s design, it was necessary" to be alone in a physi- 
cian’s office. He pushed on. Similar signs he passed, at 
short intervals, until he drew near one where the owner was 
seen just upon the point of driving off. No sooner was the 
medical man out of sight than Gridl}^ mounted the steps and 
rang. 

“ Please wait in the office,” said the servant ; “ the doctor 
will be back soon.” 

Accordingl3\ Gridlj" walked in and presentl^’^ found himself 
alone in his field. It was a large, bleak room, two sides of 
which seemed built of books, wdth here and there a ruin on 
the floor, where piles of pamphlets had been overthrown. 
The walls of books were crowned with battlements of brass- 
bound, mahogany boxes, wherein lurked many an engine of 
destruction. The corners of the room were filled with old 
wrecks of elaborate, but useless, surgical appliances, — 
mementos of inventive enthusiasm, on the part of jmnng 
members of the Facult}^ and monuments to their long-buried 
hopes of fame. On the broad mantel were jumbled fragments 
of chemical apparatus, curiosities from distant lands, time- 
wmrn clinical records, and small specimens of Art from pre- 
historic graves ; and, overall, a sedimentary deposit of dust was 
forming its geologic stratum. The furniture was substantial 
but well-worn. There were a few stout chairs and a sofa. 


MR. GRIDLY PROSECUTES A iVEU' EMTER PR /SE. 259 


upholstered with tough leather, — all of them frequent but cal- 
lous witnesses of human agony. A centre-table, sheltering a 
chest of drawers beneath, was covered with dog-eared journals. 
On one side stood an open desk, strewn with papers, pencils, 
and old pens imbrued in inky gore. There lay Gridly’s 
objective point. He reached it noiseless^ and quickly. His 
eye fell on a stack of printed blanks. A moment he listened. 
No footfall was heard. One swift survey of the premises 
assured him that he was unseen. He abstracted one paper 
and recrossed the room with his prize safely bestowed in his 
pocket. It was a certificate of death. No chuckle of satis- 
faction issued from those brassy lips. Above all things 
Gridly was cautious. But a cold, lambent light played round 
his merciless eyes, like the reflection of flame from polished 
steel. Only to his own heart the scheming brain whispered, 

That’s the ticket"’ 

Truly it was the ticket for no unwilling passenger, and the' 
passport to a city of refuge, to be filled out b}^ Gridly’s hand. 
It was, indeed, the last ticket for the humble Snib. 

But Gridly had other business there. He chose a volume 
from the book-shelves and sat down. A glance at the index 
showed the page he wanted. Thereto he turned, and there he 
read as follows : “The individual becomes blind, deaf, and 
speechless ; the pupils are dilated ; muscular tremors super- 
vene ; the pulse is imperceptible both at the wrist and heart ; 
the temperature sinks ; and then, with a few hurried gasps, 
death takes place by syncope. This preparation, owing to 
its fatal effects in an overdose, ought never to bo administered 
internally.” 

The description had a fascination for the reader. Every 
word was fixed in his memory. His gaze wandered from the 
page out through the window ; through space and brick and 
stone ; and awa}* to where imagination pictured for him an 
individual in such piteous straits. Again to his unrelenting 
heart the plotting brain whispered, “ That’s remedy 

It was, indeed, a speedy cure for one sick at heart — sick 
nigh unto death — a sure panacea for her earthly ills. In very 
truth it was, for the faithful Snib, a last, sovereign remedy. 

Man}’ further particulars Gridly read with unfailing inter- 
est. But there was yet one other article to be obtained in 
that place, and he would fain be gone before the owner’s re- 


260 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


turn. He replaced the book upon the shelf, and stepped to 
the desk again. A brief search showed him a paper with the 
physician’s name subscribed. He tore off the signature and, 
thrusting it in his pocket, would have sneaked away ; but the 
sound of a vehicle, stopping at the door, gave notice that the 
doctor had come, and that his retreat was cut off. He 
dropped into a chair, and had put on a look of pain when the 
doctor entered. Gridly rose and bowed with deference. The 
doctor merely nodded and growled, “ Keep your seat ! I’ll 
attend to your case in one moment.” Sitting down at his 
desk, he drew out his visiting-list, wrote hieroglyphics there- 
in, and added several names to a column already long. Then 
he laid down his pen, and'bringinghis chair close in front of 
Gridly, said, “ Well, what can I do for youV 

Gridly seldom lost his self-possession. But there was an 
unmistakable look of superior power in the whole aspect of 
the man that made him quail. Those e 3 ’es were practiced in 
reading hidden things. Well versed the}" seemed in all signs 
of emotion, and able to reach the very centres of thought. 

“ What’s the matter?” inquired the doctor. 

Gridly groped, mentally, for symptoms, and finding none 
likely" to pass muster, replied that he did not know ; that that 
was just what he had come there to find out. 

“ And that’s just what I’m going to tell 3 "Ou,” the doctor 
replied ; ‘‘ but y'ou must let me know how you feel, and where 
you feel it.” 

Groping again, the patient said, “ The worst of it is, I 
don’t know how to describe it exactl 3 ^” 

“ Who the d — I does, then?” demanded the doctor. “ Do 
I? ” 

“ Well,” explained Gridly^ “ I don’t know no Latin names 
of things, that is medical Latin, though I’ve got a sprinkling 
of legal — ” 

“See here, my dear sir!” cried the doctor. “ Who the 
d — 1 said you did know Latin, or who the d — 1 wants you to 
know it? Latin isn’t the question at all. It’s how do you 
feel, and where do y"Ou feel it? ” 

Here was manifestly" a fierce intolerance of all sham and 
subterfuge. Gridly had no experience of such a man, and he 
wished himself safely out. He even felt impelled to decamp 
in all haste. But there seemed risk of being clutched. 


MR. GRIDLY PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 261 


“ Well,” said he, “ the nighest I can come to it is, to call 
it a general all-overishness ; — a sort of goneness.’^ 

“ Hum, hum ! ” the doctor growled, and twirled his thumbs. 
Perhaps Gridly’s beggarly attire had some share in rousing 
his choler. It is certain that his patience had been exhausted 
with that class of subjects long ago. 

“ I guess Pd better be going,” said Gridly. “ What’s the 
damage, doctor? ” 

• This question mollified the doctor a little. 

‘‘Hum, hum!” said he. “Never mind about that till 
we’re through ! Yours is probably one of those cases where 
the symptoms are obscure. An examination will soon tell 
the story. Lay off your coat and vest I ” 

Gridly complied, seeing no wa}^ of escape. 

“ Now, hold your shoulders square, and draw a full breath,” 
said the doctor, as he began upon the thorax. Pressing one 
ear to his patient’s chest, and moving it quickly from one 
point to another, he listened in front and behind. Next, he 
thumped, dexterously and vigorously, with the ends of his 
fingers, all over the same regions. 

“ Sound as a bell,” said he. “ Now lie down ! ” 

Gridly stretched himself on the sofa. 

“ Face down ! ” cried the doctor. 

Gridly obe^^ed, and was kneaded all over the back, from 
base to vertex. Not one of the twenty-four vertebroe was 
slighted. 

“Now turn over ! ” said the doctor. 

Gridly obeyed again, and was prodded and punched in a 
manner which convinced him that, whatever the examination 
might be in a scientific point of view, it was, at all events, 
sufficient!}^ thorough. 

“ Hum, hum ! ” said the doctor, laying one hand* upon the 
patient’s breast ; “ any pain here?” 

“ Only a sort of goneness,” returned the patient. “A sort 
of empty all-overishness.” 

“How about this?” pursued the investigator, skipping 
deftly over to the* stomach, and boring there with a rigid 
index-finger. “ Any distress here?” 

“ Nothing but the same old, hollow sort of goneness,” an- 
swered Gridly, with facile iteration. “ A dull, heavy kind 
of all-overishness.” 


262 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


The doctor took a searching look at his patient’s face, and 
Gridly would have found another prodding and punching 
more tolerable than that survey. Then, knocking at the 
liver like one who would not be denied, the questioner said, 
“ Any tenderness here?” 

“Not much,” replied Gridly. “More of a sore, dumpy 
feeling, — a kind of steady, aching sogginess.” 

“ Yes, I see,” growled the doctor. “/ thought so I Hum, 
hum, hum! Put out your tongue I ” 

Gridly ’s tongue came forth, and went back at a gesture of 
abomination. 

“Pah!” exclaimed the doctor; “soaked with nicotine. 
Now the throat 1 ” Holding down the patient’s tongue with 
a spoon-handle, he viewed the abyss be3'ond. 

“ More nicotine,” said he, “ of course! ” 

Next he listened over the heart, and concluded that exer- 
cise with, “Here we have it again! All nicotine! Con- 
gested, engorged, stuffed with it ; full as an egg and tight as 
a drum ! Hum, hum ! That’s your curse ! You’re nothing 
but an old tobacco-mill! Liver, stomach, heart, — three old 
cuds! Your whole system poisoned — reeking and rotting, 
from scalp to heel.” 

Then, fillipping at his patient’s occiput, he inquired, “ Do 
3"OU ever have a pain start here and travel down one leg?” 

“ Not exactly a pain,” explained Gridly. “ Rather a kind 
of shaky, trembly feeling, together with that same aforesaid 
goneness. It seems to crawl down the left leg and wind 
round the foot.” 

“ Yes ; I was sure of it,” the doctor rejoined, with smoth- 
ered emphasis. ‘ ‘ Winds rourid the foot ! Hum ! hum I 
h-u-m! Oh ! ,yes, j^our case is plain.” 

Tapping at his patient’s cranium, he added, “ Bad work 
going on here ; — something wrong there, too,” and he 
pointed at Gridly’s heart. 

The patient wished himself miles away. 

“ That’s enough,” said the doctor. “ Now put on your 
coat ! ” 

Gridl}^* hurried on his poat. The doctor wrote upon a slip 
of paper, and handed it to him with the words, “There’s 
your prescription. The directions are with it, and the fee is 
five dollars.” 


MR. GRIDLY PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 263 

Gridly paid the fee and took himself off. Hardly had 
the door closed on him when the doctor called his servant. 
“ I’ve told you before,” said he, “ be careful how 3’ou let 
people wait in 1113' office! That fellow was a scamp, — a 
sneak-thief. No mistake about it.” 

But Gridly had no sooner turned the corner than he threw 
his prescri[)tion on the ground. 

“ Tliat be d — d ! ” said he, venting his pent-up fury. 
“Another Royal-Arch fraud, — of the Scottish rite, — and 
the tliirty-third degree! Beat me out of five dollars ! I’d 
like to give him a dose. But I’ve got the ticket, and got it 
cheap.” 

Other drug-stores were approached by" him, regarded 
attentively', then passed ; but no long time was consumed in 
finding one suitable for his purpose. Not a soul was to be 
seen in the place when he entered. At the sound of his 
step, however, from some hidden recess came trotting out 
the lean apothecary, like a spider sallying forth upon his 
prey. Not more than five paces inside had Gridly taken 
before the agile druggist was at his post, patient, alert, ex- 
pectant ; leaning forward over the counter, upon which lie 
supported himself by both palms, while he drummed nerv- 
ously thereon with nimble fingers ; ready, on demand, to lay 
his liand on any one of a thousand different articles, prompt 
to answer any one of ten thousand questions. The business 
was quickly finished. Gridly departed with his remedy, and 
the ghostly apothecary disappeared within his obscure 
retreat. 

An able counsellor was Jerry" D., without « a doubt. 
Gridly’s enterprise was certainly prospering. As he walked 
on he drew forth the vial he had purchased and examined its 
contents. He held it up to the light to observe its trans- 
parency. He shook it to see if it would froth. He smelt 
of it. With the tip of his tongue he tasted the minutest 
particle, and, finding it tasteless as well as inodorous, uttered 
a hiss of joy. He tore off the label and chewed it to pulp. 
Nor did he omit to rub the wet cork on his wristband to see 
if it would leave a stain. No visible trace was left. He 
replaced it in his pocket and entered a dram-shop. Sitting 
down alone by a small table he drank further liquid inspira- 
tion, fresh from its perennial fountain. Unobserved, he let 


264 


A YOVNQ DISCIPLE. 


fall upon the board a drop from his vial, mixing it with 
sugar from the bottom of his glass. Then he watched the 
flies that gathered around it. Presently the first one dragged 
himself away, fell, and moved not again ; then another, and 
another. Once more the artful brain whispered to the savage 
heart, “ That’s the medicine.*' 

Certainly it was a potent medicine, for sorrow as well as 
pain, — an agent whose power no living creature could 
withstand, — and for the aching heart of the weary Snib it 
was, surely, a last, precious anodyne. 

But Gridly did not tarry long. He had further w'ork for 
that busy day. Other populous thoroughfares and unfre- 
quented streets were to be traversed, for it was necessary to 
seek a new dwelling-place. In the Den, perhaps, Gridly’s 
enterprise might not prosper, nor in the neighborhood of Mr. 
Flinteye. He betook himself to a distant, sparsely-settled 
district, and there, remote from his present abode, he scented 
out a lair where he could live unknown and, for the most 
part, unseen. That done he turned homeward. Very good- 
humored he was now. Old Jeriy’s counsels were full of 
cheer. No weakness could he discover therein, adept that 
he was in plotting, and expert as he was in snares. Imagi- 
nation yielded scenes bright with maturing plans, and rich 
with ripening hopes. Wh3" must that gladsome anticipation 
stop w ithin such narrow bounds, and the prophetic e\"e not 
pierce the murky shadow beyond? Perhaps such further 
foresight accorded not with certain secret counsels of Jerry 
U. Eveiy step was pondered, every detail considered, every 
danger forestalled. There must be no acquaintance to direct 
the eye of suspicion, no accomplice to turn and betray. No 
neighbors to come with words of s^’mpathy and beset him 
with entangling questions. Every^ movement must be secret, 
every track covered. He had determined upon disease of 
the heart for the ostensible cause of death, and in his pocket 
lay the signature that he would forge upon the certificate. 
Thus far, and further, could he find no chance that his under- 
taking might miscarr3\ 

It was quite dark when he reached the Den. Supper was 
ready on the table, and the Snib sat waiting ; but she rose 
with menial alacrity, and, as Gridly lifted a hand to remove 
his hat, instinctively parried, right and left. He came to 


MR. GRIDLV PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 265 


Iier^ and, looking into her eyes without a word, shook his fist 
in her face. Her right foot slid backward as tfie meagre 
form assumed an attitude of vigilant defence. 

“Don’t, Peter!” she expostulated. “Oh! I wish you 
vjouldrCt*^ 

“ Snibbing, hey ? Snibbing!” roared Gridly, feinting at 
her eye ; and the frail but watchful Snib, waving her thin 
arm counter to the feint, felt some wasting ember of resent- 
ment in her numb heart. “ It’s no such thing,” she cried. 
“ I deny it in total, nor I wouldn’t do it.” 

Seeing no fair opportunity of getting in a blow on his 
favorite place, Gridly folded his arms and began wagging his 
head. 

“ You’re a pretty Snib, ain’t 3"ou?” he sneered. “ A bril- 
liant one you are. You must be one o’ them with a price far 
above rubies. One o’ them virtuous ones, — them seldom 
ones, 3^ou know.” 

The quaking Snib vainly offered a plea of innocence. 

“Shut up, d — n you!” bellowed Gridl3\ “Do you 
s’pose 3"Ou can carry on them games and me not know it? 
What do you take me for } A man that’s going to have par- 
ties dodging round m3* Den, — watching to jump in the minute 
I go out? Now 1 want to know who’s been snibbing round 
here to-day, and look out you don’t tell me no lies. I’ve got 
my e3*e on you. I’ve been la3’ing for you, some time. Come ! 
who was the part3^ to-day?” 

“ It was Mr. Flinteye,” confessed the Snib, visibly shrink- 
ing, but not in the least relaxing her vigilance ; “ and he’s a 
nasty, wicked old villain ! I couldn’t help it, Peter. He 
ivould come in. He said you invited him. I never, in all 
m3^ life, heard anybod3' talk so scandalous ; the way he went 
on was outrageous shameful.” 

“ There ! there ! ” interposed Gridly, “ that’ll do. I reckon 
he was looking for a jewel, — one o’ them pearls we read 
about; so, he took a dive in here. I wouldn’t sa3' no more* if 
I was you. I don’t want no gabble. You pack your traps ! 
We’re going to hustle out.” 

“ Why, Peter !” cried the Snib, “ what do you mean? What 
are 3*ou going to do ? ” 

“ I mean we’re going to travel out o’ here,” roared Gridly. 
“ To strike a spot where 3^ou can’t work them little games so 


266 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


free. I mean I’ve hired another den, where 3011 won’t find 
it so easy to go a-snibbing. Now, shut up, I say ! You’d 
better begin to get the traps together, because, I tell you, 
we’re going to move.” 

The Snib was astonished be3^ond description. Her watch- 
fulness gave way to sheer stupefaction. All the home she 
knew was in that den, and she had expected never to leave 
it until she should be carried out, with her hair done very 
plain, and her black alpaca on — that other dress in which 
she looked taller — and without any tuberoses, but reposing 
in a neat receptacle of her own choosing, with a modest 
silver plate, and bright silver handles. But her amazement 
was suddenly ended by Gridly, who, seizing the opportunit3^ 
when she was off her guard, succeeded, by a very clever 
stroke, in bringing her to the floor. 

“There, now!” said he. “You see what you get by 
snibbing. Rather warm, wasn’t it? Come, pick 3^ourself up 
and tell me what you’ve been up to ! What was that old 
rum-head doing round here to-day ? ” 

The miserable creature raised herself up as well as she 
could, and her misty e3^es overflowed. She burst into a flood 
of tears. 

“Come, now!” cried Gridly, “I wouldn’t try that if I 
was you. That game’s played out. Don’t think to gammon 
me ! You canH do it.** 

“ Oh ! I cannot help it,” sobbed the Snib. “ Don’t, don*t, 
any more! Haven’t I always done the best I could? 
Haven’t I always been a good wife to you? Don’t blame me, 
Peter ! I drove him off. I don’t like his nasty ways, nor I 
wouldn’t let him talk so scandalous. Oh ! 1 am so tired, so 
tired I You musn’t be cruel to me. I cannot bear it. 
Don’t you remember you loved me once? Don’t call me 
Snib ! Say Hetty ! Just once, just once., like long ago ! ” 

She wiped away the tears that kept flowing. Then she 
came to her lord and master, and sank down at his feet. 

“ Come, get out o’ that ! ” cried Gridly. “ Wasn’t that last 
one hot enough ? ” 

The abject Snib obeyed as best she could. Clasping her 
hands, she looked up to Gridly’s face with a spasmodic move- 
ment of the lips and eyelids, that lent her a singular, idiotic 
expression. She was trying to look as she had when she was 


MR. QRIDLT PROSECUTES A NEW ENTERPRISE. 267 


beloved, — in those days when she was Hetty, — those happy 
days, long, long ago. But it was, alas ! a forgotten art. It 
was the Snib’s last, futile effort at a smile. 

“ Peter, ” she pleaded, “ won’t you tell me once more you 
love me? I’ll mind everything you say, forever and ever. I 
haven’t anybod}^ but yon. Won’t you try to love me again? 
Just a little while. Perhaps I ma}^ not be here long.” 

Gridly started suddenly, perceiving how nearly their 
thoughts ran in the same channel, and, eying her as if he 
looked into her very heart, bitterly cried, “Look here ! 
that’s the tune you’ve been singing for years ; alwa3"s harping 
on the same old string. But it strikes me you hang on pretty 
well, after all. You don’t seem in no particular hurry. 
There’d be some sense, if you’d quit gabbing and go. Say ! 
will }'ou quit? ” 

He clenched his fist and his eyes wandered over the Snib’s 
tearful face, seeking an eligible place. Had she made 
the least movement to dodge or parry, he would have felled 
her instantly. But she was too sorrowful. With a look full 
of grief and reproach, she only asked, “ Peter, do you want 
me to leave 3’ou forever? Would you like me to be dead and 
gone ? ” 

Gridly glanced about with furtive, guilty e3"es, as though 
fearful that other ears might hear, and then, with deliberate 
emphasis replied, “ Would I like it? If ’twould do any good 
't’d pray for it.” 

And the broken-hearted woman, searching her husband’s face 
for some token that those dreadful words were 01113' the voice 
of sudden anger, found there, stamped on every feature the 
assurance that the3' were the language of a cruel truth. 
Siie lowered her head, and covered her face, while her faint 
voice moaned like some distant echo, “Oh, me! 0 /i, me/ 
It’s time I was praying for it, too.” 


268 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

NIGHTHAWKS. 

In spite of Mr. Flinteye’s vigilance, the time came when he 
discovered that the Den was inhabited by strangers, and 
that Gridly was nowhere to be found ; and, thenceforth, the 
only actors in the convivial scenes by which the Clover-Leaf 
was enlivened, were the greater and the lesser Bummer. 
Gradually the Brand overcame the horror he had felt when 
he first learned to what occupation he was destined ; and, as 
time passed off, he became almost as expert as his master. 
He was no longer the ragged little starveling whom Flinte3’e 
had found that dismal morning on the pier, cowering in the 
mud. In stature, indeed, he had changed but little, for the 
hardships of his childhood had checked his growth. Nor 
had he lost the premature look of age. The impress of his 
sufferings was stamped upon his face, and there it would re- 
main to his last day. But the hollow cheeks were filled out, 
and the lank limbs had grown round and muscular. In the 
desolate waste of his bondage at Deacon Biggot’s, he could 
count a few green spots, — stolen hours when he had lain 
basking with his pet, on the warm side of some stone wall, 
— and these he looked upon as the only periods when he 
had gained size and strength, — irregular but infallible 
indexes, like the rings which he had seen in the end of a 
log, marking the yearly growth of the tree. But upon his 
horizon another sun had risen, to warm his veins with new 
life. That health-giving luminary was the glowing visage of 
the Old Bummer. From that bright disc flowed beams of 
unruffled content, and perpetual rays of cheerful approbation, 
wherein he throve well. A strong attachment had grown 
up between the two. True to his promise, the Brand had 
eschewed the example of the Hebrew prince, and remained 
unshaken in his devotion to one who was, to him, more than 
father or king. His gratitude to his benefactor was un- 
bounded. Flinte3’e had trul3^ rescued him from impending 


NIQHTHA WKS. 


269 


death. Nor had he restored him to want and misery, but 
as it seemed to the boy, had translated him to a world of 
plenty and comfort, — a wonderful region where he found 
rest from abuse, and where persecution was unknown. To 
him, Mr. Flinteyo was the one great and good man of all 
the earth, — a wise instructor by whose example all the 
teaching of Deacon Biggot was swept into oblivion, — the 
prophet of a religion hitherto unrevealed, and one whereof 
he was proud to be a zealous disciple. So great, indeed, was 
his faith, that even their unhallowed business seemed almost 
legitimized by the partnership of Mr. Flinteye. And the 
latter grew fond of his apprentice. He treated him with the 
kindness of a parent and the confidence of a comrade. Their 
secret trade cut them off from other companionship only to 
bind them closer together. To all intents and purposes, 
Flinteye had adopted the boy. He had plans for his future, 
and dreams of amassing wealth for him, — visions of some 
large landed estate, whereof the Brand should be the active 
manager, and he a silent partner, whose pleasant duties 
w'ould consist chiefl}' of dozing over his pipe and his reg- 
ulars. But the Brand was patiently pursuing a private 
undertaking. From some words let fall by Mr. Flinteye, in 
his musing moods, the observant bo}^ had constructed a 
theory which he was now watching and waiting to verify, 
hoping thereby to prepare a grand surprise for his supe- 
lior, — one that should redound to his own credit as well as 
make some return for the other’s kindness. In this endeavor 
he absented himself more than formerly from the Clover- 
Leaf. And thus it came to pass that Mr. Flinteye sat alone, 
in his bar-room, late one evening. The Brand had been 
gone since noon, and it was now near midnight. An extra- 
ordinary nimbus of tobacco smoke, spreading far and wide, 
near the ceiling, with dense cumuli rolling beneath, hinted 
at some unusual effort of the Old Bummer to maintain his 
mental equilibrium, while the unwonted stillness of his 
right arm told of many irregulars. He was thinking of 
Gridly’s disappearance. For some reason which he had not 
disclosed to the Brand, he had resolved to keep a close 
watch upon his neighbor. But that design had miscarried. 
Gridly had eluded him and left no trace ; and now he was 
reflecting upon that circumstance. “Mr. Flinteye,” he 


270 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


said aloud, “wasn’t you took in, very neat? Croaks the 
answer, never neater. Wasn’t 3’^ou beautifully bamboo- 
zled? It croaks again, you know 3^00 was. Can you tell 
why^ he’s off? No. Have 3’ou any^ notion on it? Frehaps 
yes, and prehaps no ; it don’t make no difference. He’s run 
up his canvas and slipped his cable in a jiffy. P’obablv 
while 3'ou was asleep he fetched a truck. On that truck he 
piled his trash. Onto that there little pile he set his little 
Snib, and steered for some other den. High and low have 
you hunted, but found no trail. What branch have ymu 
left? Only to pull away on your stimulant and cull the rosy 
hours while they fleet.” 

Thereupon Mr. Flintey^e took a long, vigorous pull at the 
stimulant, and was resting from that exercise when the Brand 
walked slowly^ into the room, with a desperate effort to play 
his figure in a manner significant of glorious tidings. 

“Look here!” said Flinteye. “You know I’ve never 
branched out much into the scolding department. But, me- 
think you’re trenching onto bad habits; — roving too often 
and too long. Better re-trench, Bubber, on them there little 
outside lays.” 

The Brand made no reply. He was evidently’' under great 
excitement. He tossed his cap on the floor, as if to challenge 
any denial of some forthcoming statement, and then aban- 
doned himself to an ecstatic performance of “ The girl with a 
hole in her stocking.” The Old Bummer regarded him with 
languid interest. At the conclusion, he remarked, “That’s 
veiy good ; but I wouldn’t undertake them new touches, if I 
was you. They’re a trifle above you, yet, Bubber. Just a 
peg or two beymnd your reach. Now where y^ou been?” 

“On the prowl,” returned the Brand, clearly bent upon 
gradual disclosure. “ Now wot do ymu bet I’ve struck? It’s 
'Something mighty gay.” 

Mr. Flinteye did not bet ; but he came it, with alternate 
eyes, in a manner which implied that he already knew what 
the other had struck, and that he could cheerfully indorse it 
as a gay thing. 

“ No use to blink ! ” cried the Brand. “ You couldn’t tell, 
if you wos to try a year. But, if you wos going to bet. I’d 
say, bet a plant.” 

“Very good,” returned Flinteye; “ and, for so young a 


NIGHT HA WKS. 


271 


nighthawk, I call you a bird of promise. Some day you’ll 
be the gem of the profession.” 

“ But, who do you bet that plant wos, afore it went off the 
books?” pursued the Brand, brimming over with eagerness. 

“ I don’t set myself up for no betting character,” replied 
Flinte 3 *e. “ 1 give it up.” 

“ Wol, then,” resumed the Brand, with increasing excite- 
ment, “ ’twos a bird more ruggecler than a pigeon ; nor her 
nest wosn’t far off from here, neither.” 

Flinteye’s attention was thoroughl}' roused. 

“ Now, who bossed that bird,” continued the Brand, “ afore 
it turned to a plant? Come ! la}^ your sugar on it ! ” 

Mr. Flintey^e now displayed an eager interest, and cried, 
“ Out with it, Bubber ! Who was it?” 

“Can’t you bet?” demanded the Brand. “See here!” 
He uttered a sharp hiss and swung his fist, like a pendulum, 
beneath his chin. Then he exclaimed, in triumph, “There, 
then ! Who does that stand for?” 

“ Bubber,” cried Flinteye, “ if that is true, you’re the veiy 
ditunond of the vocation. Be you dead-sure?*' 

“Sure!” echoed the Brand. “ You bet ! Wot’s more, I 
expect Tm a-tumbling to your little olio.” 

“ Never mind the olio ! ” cried the Old Bummer. “ Your 
})resent main is the story of a plant. Huny on with it, and 
skip every branch ! ” 

“ Wol,” began the Brand, “ it’s lucky I kep’ my eye out 
on Mr. Gridly. I’ve spotted every step he’s took. ’Twos 
in the night he moved, when you wos asleep. He went ahead 
with the truck, and I shogged along on his track. Just like 
the song says, — 

“ ‘ You toddle on, with the bottle an’ bag, 

An’ I’ll shog along on my jolly jack-nag.’ 

That’s wot I done. Every time the truck stopped, I hopped 
behind a telegraph-pole. P^very time it started again, on I 
shogged. That’s how I run him into his burrow, at last. 
’Twos a wooden house, with green blinds, all alone by itself — 
a little two-story feller, with trees in the yard an’ bushes 
round the windies. There’s been my loafing spot ever since. 
Them’s my bad habits, Mr. Flinteye.” 


272 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ ril take it back,” cried Flinte3’e, “ ar/ I’m sorry I said 
it. You was merrily foll^’ing the path of duty. I give 3^011 
credit for it.” 

“Yesterday,” resumed the delighted Brand, “I seen the 
black flag a-fluttering from the door-knob, an’ knowed a 
plant wos there. So, I waited till dark. ’Twosn’t long afore 
the cove wot takes ’em under come up with his ’prentice an’ 
his ice-box. Then I wormed along, an’ run m3' eye through 
the windy. Wot do you s’pose I seen? Now 3'ou know, 
well enough, who I seen. She wos poor as a crow. No- 
body ever wos wore out so bad. But she lay off, kind o’ 
careless an’ rested, like she wos wery glad to be through with 
it ; an’ I’ll bet she’d ought to be. I wonder why it is some 
people awluz have it so terrible rough an’ dust3^, an’ other 
people — ” 

“ Look here !” cried Flinteye, “if you hadn’t nobod3^ to 
hold you in, you’d out-branch the Missippi. Stick to 3'our 
main ! ” 

“ Wol,” continued the Brand, “I wos back there to-day, 
an’ seen ’em when they started — wot they wos of ’em. Mr. 
Gridly rode in one carriage, an’ his plant in the other. That’s 
all the circus she had. I struck the bone-yard ahead of ’em, 
an’ seen ’em take her under. Then I tore for the old Clower- 
Leaf. Now, I expect you’ll say, ‘ booms the queiy, why so 
late.’ Then I shall say, ‘jib-booms the answer, I had to 
go back again. I had forgot to mark the spot.’ ” 

When the Brand concluded, his master was pacing the floor 
impatiently. “ Come, Bubber,” the latter abruptly exclaimed, 
“ make ready now ; no time to lose ! ” 

Presently a figure emerged from the Clover-Leaf, and the 
door was locked behind him. It was the Brand. He was 
clad in a pair of butternut overalls, and a loose jacket of the 
same material, confined at the throat with a sailor’s knot of 
rusty black silk. On his head was a dingy, slouched hat, 
beneath whose brim straggled the unkempt locks of a wig. 
His transformation was complete; 3'et in his pocket la3' a 
mask of muslin, to conceal his face in case of necessity. It 
was a pleasant, starlight night. The din and bustle of the 
day were over, and, in that neighborhood, few people were 
abroad. No light shone from the lamp-post that stood reel- 
ing near, its head bereft of glass and turned awry, as in tacit 


NIGHTHAWKS. 


273 


consent to deeds of darkness. A clatter of hoofs and a jing- 
ling of car bells was heard from adjacent thoroughfares, and, 
over the river, far and near, echoed the infrequent whistle of 
the steamboats. Hut, from the immediate vicinity of the 
Clover-Leaf, no sound arose, except the gentle plashing of 
the waves. The Brand looked about him, sauntered to the 
middle of the long pier, clambered down the logs of which it 
was built, and dropped, noiselessly, into a small skiff. The 
craft slid silently under the pier, moved slowly through a 
forest of piles, and stopped at length beneath a long, ram- 
bling ruin of a shed that reached out from the Clover-Leaf 
toward the water. With his oar the Brand knocked upon the 
floor above, and a trap-door opened. A spade was handed 
down. Next followed a long India-rubber sack, with two 
stout cords, and a ladder of tarred rope, one end of which 
was hooked to the planking overhead. Last came Flinteye, 
no less transformed than his apprentice. The ladder . was 
now unfastened, and the trap closed with a boat-hook. The 
skiff then disappeared, as it had come. But, still as a shadow, 
it floated out again from under the end of the pier, and glided 
swiftly down the river on the ebbing tide. Flinteye seated 
himself at the oars, while the Brand took his station at the 
tiller and kept watch ahead. 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Gridly ! ” said Flinteye. “ Methink I see 
3’ou in your carriage with your weed onto your hat, and 3"our 
handkerchief undoubtably a-d ripping with grief. But be 
you reflecting on 3^our departed Snib? Be you calling to 
mind how she stuck by .you through thick and thin ; and how 
she would stuck by long arter everybody else had shook .you 
off? Be you sorrying for the buffs, and rebuffs, and the 
re-rebuffs you’ve visited onto that poor innocent? Be you 
looking for’ard to the time when 3^011 will go to j’ine her? 
Not you. What be 3^011 up to, then? Why, p’obably you’re 
thinking how neat 3^ou’ve finished 3’our job, and how fly 
you’ve played Old Jerry’s tactics. Prehaps you’re a-dwell- 
ing on future riches ; and, prehaps, likeways on Snib number 
two. With your first one planted, and the hatches all bat- 
tened down, undoubtably 3’ou’ll call yourself safe ; but will 
3’ou be? Chimes the answer, methink 3’ou’ll vaiy. A deep 
one you are, and very bottomless is your old Jerry ; but 
this time 3’ou’re on a la3’ where deepness doesn’t alvva3^s win. 


274 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Metbink you’ve done it, at last, without judge or jury, and, 
of course, 3’ou believe 3’our tracks well hid. P’obably you 
don’t have no idea your Flinteye will upset you ; but won’t 
he? That’s one of the things time will tell. Do a friend 
ever upset a friend ? That’s one of the things anybody can 
tell. On ever}^ side groans the answer, they often do.” 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” said the Brand, in a low voice of earnest 
counsel, “if 3'ou want to upset him gay^, take him back o’ 
the ear.” 

To which advice the other simply replied, “Never 3'ou 
mind, Bubber ! The Old Gentleman knows the correct spot 
to take him.” 

The Old Bummer pulled with vigor. Dim outlines of 
docks, of shipping, and of buildings, faded away into the 
night. The rushing tide bore the skiff swiftly along. 
Governor’s Island loomed up out of the darkness, and the 
Brand steered, through Buttermilk Channel, towards the 
deepest recess of Gowanus Cove. As they" neared the shore 
their movements were marked by" the utmost caution. The 
Brand changed his position to the bow, while Flinteye took 
his seat in the stern, and, with a single scull, propelled the 
boat without a sound. Only the ripple of wavelets was 
heard, and then the muffled grating of the prow, which told 
that the craft had reached her familiar port. The Brand 
crept forth, carrying over his shoulder the long India-rubber 
sack, and, in his hand, the spade. The other followed, and 
secured the boat. They stood upon the margin of a barren 
stretch of land, whereon the light of day" would have shown 
heaps of rubbish, piles of refuse lumber, and mounds of 
earth. Only a short distance ahead, this solitude was 
bordered by a deserted road, and this, in turn, was bounded 
by a lofty" fence of pointed iron rods. Beyond lay what 
seemed a forest. Thither they took their way on stealthy 
feet, and there they stopped without a word. Preparation 
for their work w’as manifest here, for three of the iron rods 
were easily sprung from their supports by Flintey^e, and as 
easily" replaced after the twain had passed through. Long 
acquaintance w"ith the place had familiarized the Old Bum- 
mer with every path. A few" whispered words from the 
Brand sufficed to direct him, and he led the way" under the 
trees, among tablets and shafts of marble, and over many a 


NIG TIT HA WKS. 


27r) 

little hillock, until they stopped at a new-made grave. There 
they listened ; but that silent city gave forth no sound, ex- 
cept the night- wind breathing among the leaves. 

“Now be spry!” said Flinteye. “Lay them turfs one 
side ! But take your little nip afore you begin ! You act 
like you wasn’t quite broke in.” 

“ Somehow or ruther,” said the Brand, “ I feel wery 
sing’lar to-night. It ain’t offen you dig a plant you’ve once 
seen trotting round gay an’ lively. I bet it’s a great range 
for ghosts.” 

He applied his master’s flask to his lips, and then bent to 
his task. That done, Flinteye took the spade, and began to 
throw out the earth. Tlie caution of their movements 
hitherto was now laid aside. They feared no danger here. 
Well they knew that no living soul, except themselves, was 
in all the groves and vales of that wide territory. 

“Say!” resumed the Brand. “I used to think when a 
cove wos off the liooks, an’ down in a bone-yard, he’d got a 
sure thing. Not on his sould I don’t mean ; only on his 
body. But he ain’t got no sure thing, even on that. Seems 
kind o’ awful to h’ist a plant when 3'ou don’t know but his 
sould has got both eyes out on 3’ou all the time'. Wot’s 
worse, 3 oil don’t know but that sould will get even with 
yours arter 3’ou’ve went off the hooks 3’our own self. ' Don’t 
you think it looks ruther ghosty round here.^ Do you b’lieve 
they is such a thing, Mr. Flinte3’e?” 

Pausing to recover his breath, and leaning upon his spade, 
Flinte3'e replied, “The Old Gentleman understands you to 
ask do he believe in ghosts. Never 3*011 mind whether he 
do or not. All he’s got to sa3^ is, he has seen things in this 
here place, as would make 3’ou very chill3' to hear of.” 

“ Doi/t talk about ’em!” exclaimed the Brand, with an 
apprehensive glance at the surrounding tombstones. “I’d 
ruther 3*ou wouldn’t.” 

One shaft in particular, tall, narrow, and half-hidden by 
intervening shrubbery, disquieted him not a little. The more 
steadily he looked at it the more did it seem to rise and sink, 
and to oscillate from side to side. Shifting his position so as 
to bring his master between this object and himself, he re- 
marked, “It’s sing’lar how things will keep bobbing up an* 
down, when you’ve got your eye on ’em, in the dark. If a 


27(1 


A rOUXG DISCIPLE. 


ghost wos to come sniliog along here, would you tackle it?” 

The other recommenced his work while he replied, in a 
voice of deep solemnity, “ Bubber, once the Old Gentleman 
tackled one. Never will he tackle another.” 

The Brand kept bis gaze away from that dim, white tomb- 
stone, and inquired, Did he keep rareing up an’ down, 
kind o’ slow an’ eas}^? ” 

No, Bubber.” 

“ Did he teenter back an’ for’ard?” 

‘‘Not a teenter.” 

The Brand felt a morbid impulse to take another view of 
that pale object, but kept his eyes fastened upon his master 
who was shovelling out the earth as fast as he could. To 
divert his thoughts, he had recourse to an expedient that had 
proved valuable, in the numerous dilemmas into which Deacon 
Biggot used to lure him, trying how quickly he could count a 
hundred. That done, he renewed the conversation, remark- 
ing, “ Kind o’ eas}" digging, ’cos it’s soft an’ meller.” 

Mr. Flinteye, who was fast settling in the ground, paid no 
heed to this remark. Without ceasing from his task, he 
resumed : — 

“ Bubber, that was a great night for ghosts. In the first 
place, ’twas dark as Egypt.” 

“ Like the song says,” interposed the Brand, — 

“ ‘ When I wos down in Egypt’s land, 

Foddle-di-gni, foddle-di-gru.’ ” 

“Was I to hazard my opinion on it,” the Old Bummer 
peevishly returned, ‘‘ 1 sliould sa}' you never grew too fud- 
dled for dipping in — neither there nor in any other country. 
But, in the second place, ’twas just twelve, and a great hour 
for ghosts is twelve o’clock. What’s more, t4ie Northern 
Lights was sprouting up in the nor’-west — a circumstance as 
is p’obably more conducive to ghosts than any other single 
one.” 

The Brand threw a quick glance to the north-west and 
inquired, “ Wosn’t Mr. Cricket sounding, kind o’ s’rill an’ 
lonely? ” 

“ I should say he was,” Flinteye impressively replied ; 
“ not to mention Mr. Whippoorwill, and a whippoorwill is a 


NIGHT II A WKS. 


277 


bird very favorable to ghosts, — p’obably a more favorable 
bird, on the whole, than a cricket is insect.’’ 

Wosu’t Mr. Bat dodging round, kind o’ flighty?” inquired 
the Brand ; “both eyes out for millers, an’ giving a squeak 
every time he nabbed one?” 

“ Believe me,” the Old Bummer solemnly returned, “ he 
was fully that; and he’s a bird* as shows a most decided 
leaning, and bosom-friendliness, to ghosts.” 

“ That is, if he is a bird,” objected the Brand. 

“ There, there ! ” Flinteye quickly answered. “Don’t go 
branching out onto the bat question. He may be a bird, or 
he may be a beast, or he may have a touch of both into him. 
But the bat question has nothing to do with the story. What 
yon want to bear in mind is, ’twas a most tremenduous night 
for ghosts. Do 3’ou see anything, Bubber, over yonder?” 

“ Onl}’ Mr. Bat,” replied the Brand, “ flipping round, wery 
zigzag; an’ I hear Mr. Cricket tuning of it up, aivful s’rill 
aif mournful. I don’t know wot’s the matter of me, to- 
night.” 

“ I do,” said Flinteye. “ It’s the effects of too much dip- 
ping and branching. It’ll wear off, if you take a rest. Keep 
both ears out for the Old Grentleman’s story. Listen steady, 
if you’d learn why he’ll never tackle another. Now, back to 
our main. On its very threshold strides the query, had Mr. 
Flinte3'e been striking his stimulant uncommon heavy that 
day? Brief!}', methink he had. It’s a trifling matter, 
whether or no. Suppose he had. Grant, even, he was 
dreadful groggy. But, bear you in mind that at his grog- 
giest, the Old Gentleman was never much of a believer in 
the ghost department, and, like ways, was he never gifted 
with deceptions eyesight. Folly out the logic of it ! If ever 
Mr. Flinteye supposes he sees a thing, it’s a dead certingty 
he do see it. He was never given to phantoms and tantrums 
of the brain. Do lie think he seen a fearful thing that there 
night? No, he don’t tlwik nothing about it. He knows he 
did. What was it? There now, Bubber, looms the query 
to which no answer never boomed. It was in this same plan- 
tation. The Old Gentleman was out with his spade and 
bag.” 

“Just like the song says,” commented the Brand. 

“Grant it was simyular to that; but put the clamps on 


278 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


your tongue,” growled Mr. Flinteye. “ He was out, I say, 
with his implements. Toppling a trifle, prehaps, but, grant- 
ing he was dreadful damp with stimulant, I should say he 
was getting along decided well. And now, Bubber, stalks 
the spectre upon the scene. Suddenly, something unearthly 
pale seemed like it streamed up, out the ground, plumb in the 
Old Gentleman’s path.” ‘ 

“ Wosn’t jMr. Tree-toad croaking just then,” inquired the 
Brand, “ awful hoarse and solemn?” 

“Now, see here!” exclaimed Flinteye. “ P’obably I’d 
better let you tell that stoiy. Prehaps 3’ou know' more about 
it than ^mur Old Gentleman. If not, buckle down the clamps. 
I was saj'ing how something rose out the ground. Was 
there any other thing rose up, and, if so, what vvas it? Bub- 
ber, raethink there was, and I should say ’twas the Old 
Gentleman’s hair. In them da3's he had more of it, you see, 
and ’twas easier to start. But never mind about that! In 
them times I wasn’t at all inclined to ghosts. I wms skepty- 
ucal on the entire subject. I tried to bring m3' skept3mcism 
to bear on that there pallid form. But I couldn’t make it 
work. It had fled and gone to j’ine the Irrevocable Past. 
There stood Mr. Flinteye, sw'eating like every nip he ever 
took w'os draining through his skin, though he was in a fear- 
ful chill. It ain’t no figtioii to say his marrow was froze 
solid — plumb solid, Bubber, sim3mlar to a candle. And 
there stood that ghost, or spectre, or vision, or wdiatever it 
w'as, waving like a plume, close in front the Old Gentleman ; 
pale and still, terrible thin and vaporish. Yes, he was dread- 
ful light-looking — simyular to a small fog or vapor ; and out 
of him circled off wave arter wave of awful cold breath, like 
you’ve seen the water circle when 3'ou’ve flung stones into a 
pond. Nobody knows what cold is till they’ve felt the breath 
of a ghost. Every time it washed over me each vein in m3^ 
bod3' felt like it was a thread, or cord, frozen stiff ; and then 
that deadly agur would shake me like it would reduce me to a 
plant. I’d been glad to run, but I was too far gone. I longed 
to look awa3', but, bless you ! Bubber, my e3’es was fastened 
to that there awful phantom, like they was nailed onto it.” 

“ You had ought to come it, double-barrelled,” declared 
the Brand; “just the ga3'est 3'ou knowed how. I bet that 
ghost never could stood it — never in the world.” 


NIGHT HA IFiT.S'. 


279 


“ Bubber, don’t you trifle ! ” said Flinteye. “ How do you 
know but one miglit rise np here, in your veiy face ? ” 

“That’s so,” muttered the Brand. 1 hear Mr. Cricket 
tuning of it up wery sorrowful.” 

“ Well, well!” replied Flinteye. “ Let him sound away! 
Meanwhile, keep 3’our ears out i M}^ tongue seemed like it 
was glued fast. But I thought I’d better speak him fair. 
So, I tore it loose, and branched out this way : ‘ Wandyur- 

ing tennon of the tomb ! Tolls the query, wherefore do thou 
come ? ’” 

“ Wot sort of answer did lie boom? ” inquired the Brand. 

“ Not one word,” replied Flinteye. “ He merril^^ sh’ugged 
his shoulders, and slid a peg or two nearer.” 

“ Why didn’t you tr^' him with j’our Agger? ” pursued the 
other. “ P’raps 3*011 might uv played it right that time.” 

The Old Bummer kept silent a minute, and then resumed : 
“ Now, if 3’ou feel any better for working that tliorn into your 
Old Gentleman, I’ll go on. Sa3^s I to m3*self, ‘ Mr. Flint- 
eye, you’re sent for. That’s your messenger. Your time has 
come. But try him one whack ! ’ With that, I lifted my 
spade and jumped for’ard. Lord bless 3*011 ! That spectre 
never even winked ; but something took me over one eye, 
and down I went. And there I la3’ed, with that awful phan- 
tom a-waving o’er me. I seen a face looking out the top of 
it, like it was peering through a mist, and changing to one I 
k no wed — the face of a sainted angel as died a ci'uel death, 
long years ago. Then I felt myself going. The last thing I 
thought was, ’t would be all right, anyhow, if I was going with 
her.’’ 

“ You couldn’t uv bet on it,” remarked the experienced 
Brand. “ She might been baiting of 3*011 on.” 

“ Well, I would risked it,” replied Flintey^e. “ But that’s 
all I remember, until I heard the thunder cracking, saw the 
lightning blaze all round me, and found the rain shelling 
down. I was stone-dead, but the rain fetched me to. Whether 
that spectre carried me off, for a spell, I never found out. 
But this much I know : I was stone-dead. The Old Gentle- 
man got home in that storm, the best way he could ; .and 
there he layed with a broken head, many a day, afore he got 
over the effects of that ghost. Now 3*ou see why he’ll never 
tackle another.” 


280 


A VOLLVa DISCIPLE. 


Mr. Flinte^^e had settled, almost to his neck, in the ground. 

“ Plunk ! plank ! ” said the Brand. “ That’s the wood. I 
know it by the sound. A gay story, but it can’t beat the 
king o’ the Mokes ; nor it don’t gum me neither. You said 
you wos meller on the start. Now, them reg’lars kep’ gaining 
on you, till crack ! went your shell against a headstone. 
’Twosn’t lightning you seen. ’Twos stars. I’ve seen ’em 
many a time, when 1 was 3'oung an’ had to ketch it so offen. 
But I expect a spectre’s pecked a speck o’ — ” 

“ Thunderation ! ” cried the Old Bummer. “What you 
trying to say, anyhow? What 30U doing loith your mouth?'* 

“Coming the woodpecker-game,” explained the Brand. 
“ But, anyway, I don’t b’lieve one o’ them things could break 
3"our shell. You said they wos like fog or wapor.” 

“ I thought, all the time,” returned Flinteye, “ you knowed 
more about it than your Old Gentleman. About how soon 
do you think of setting up for his boss ? ” 

With that gentle sarcasm, the Old Bummer threw out the 
last shovelfuls and came forth to rest. The Brand stood 
gazing down, with two ropes in his hand. 

“ How deep an’ dark it looks !” he muttered. “ If it wos 
to cave in on me, they’d be two plants in one spot. I’ve seen 
the time I’d matched that one wery well ; — an’ glad to be 
there, too.” 

“ Come, be lively ! ” said Flinteye. 

The Brand lowered himself down. Presently he came forth 
again, and then, in a few minutes, the body lay upon the 
grass. Flinteye held a dark lantern to its face. “ There ! ” 
said he. “ Many a one has the Old Gentleman lifted, but 
the sum total of ’em all can’t approx3mmate in value to this 
here single one.” 

“ Don’t it make 3^ou feel ruther horrid,” inquired the 
Brand, “ to think how 3'ou’ve fetched that little piece o’ prop- 
erty, at last, wot 3’ou couldn’t fetch afore?” 

Without noticing the question, Flinteye slowly moved his 
lantern from side to side. “ Looks like a crooked death,” 
he muttered. “Ah, poor soul! An ungodly serpent was 
you mated with, and a most ungodly job he’s made o’ this.” 

“Mr. Flinteye,” said the Brand, “can 3’ou find out now 
how the land is layin’ ? ” 

“Look here!” returned the other. “You’re worse than 


NIGHT HA WKS. 


281 


a wasp. The Old Gentleman’s heard enough about that one 
failure of his life. Don’t you never fling it up at him again ! 
Now take hold and we’ll get through ! ” 

The grave was quickly filled, and the turf replaced as 
clean and smooth as it had been found. The body was then 
enclosed in the sack, and with it the two made their way 
towards the boat. Their voices were hushed again. The 
sky was now overcast, and, beneath the trees, they were 
wrapped in impenetrable darkness. Yet they followed their 
invisible route as if by unerring instinct. Stopping at 
intervals, to listen, as well as to lay down their burden and 
rest, they skulked along to the iron boundary of the ceme- 
tery. Here Flinteye waited. But the Brand moved further 
off*, scaled the fence, crossed the road, and explored the 
ground beyond. In and out, among piles of lumber and 
heaps of rubbish, he sneaked without a sound. But no spy 
was lurking there. So silent was his return that Flinte3'e 
was made aware of it onl}- b}’ a faint clicking on the iron. 
The rods were now removed, as before, and the passage 
through the fence was quickly accomplished. Like two 
shadows, the pair stole across the road, and over the lonely" 
waste, to their boat. Their freight was shipped without 
delay, and only a slight rubbing sound broke the silence 
wdiile they left their anchorage. Not a word escaped them. 
No incautious movement of the foot, no creaking of an oar, 
told that anybody was stirring in that ghostly craft, as it 
slowly floated out to the channel where the flood tide was 
rushing up to the city. The rising wind had roughened the 
bay. A low, muffled roar came from the surf on Governor’s 
Island, and the waves plashed merrily around the skiff*. At 
length Flinteye ventured to speak. “ Now, then,” said he, 
“ hook on the kelks ! ” He then bent to the oars, while the 
Brand drew forth, from under a little deck at the stern, two 
heavy stones, each bound with a rope which secured an iron 
hook, and fastened them to the sack. That done, they were 
ready to sink their cargo at the first alarm. 

“How she tottles !” exclaimed the Brand. “If I wos to 
roll out, where’d you get another little Bummer? Seems like 
something ought to happen on such horrid la3’S. But wot do 
you s’pose sent that plant off the hooks, — worrying over her 
luck, or feber?” 


282 


A YOUNG DL^CIPLE. 


“ Biibber,” returned Mr. Flinteye, with m^^sterious solem- 
nity, not worry and not fever. Depend on it, worry was 
not the thing as done it, no more was fever. The Old Gen- 
tleman has a little notion of his own.” 

“ I’m a-tumbling,” cried the Brand. “ Fits ! fits ! ” 

“ Fits, Bubber, doesn’t harmyunize with the little notion,” 
said Flinteye. “ Too much diseolyuration for fits.” 

“ Anyhow,” declared the Brand, “ I bet she wos almighty 
glad to go. Folks sometimes get to a spot where they can’t 
see no other road. I’ve been wery near there, my own self, 
when I wos young. Maybe that wos why you couldn’t make 
the ripple with j'our figger, — p’raps she wos too wore-out and 
discouraged like.” 

“ I’m sorry you haven’t got an awl or a gimblet,” returned 
Mr. Flinteye. “ How much better you would feel if \"ou 
could only drive something sharp into your Old Gentleman ! ” 

The Brand kept silent, and the skiff sped along, driven by 
wind and tide, as well as by the powerful strokes of the oars- 
man. The sullen surf was heard no longer, and the island, 
as well as the Brooklyn shore, had already disappeared in 
the general gloom. Overhead, the eye could perceive 
nothing. But, low down and far away, like distant stars, 
shone the signal lights of scattered ships riding at anchor on 
the ba}^, — a seeming arc of bright, infrequent dots marking 
the southern horizon of the night. Above, the course of the 
river could be traced by the feny-houses and their beacon 
lamps, whence narrow paths, and long, straight, glimmering 
lanes of lurid light stretched forth, and la}^ quivering on the 
black surface. But not on every side was the upper air 
absolutely dark, though no ray of starlight pierced the in- 
visible vault. From south to north over the slumbering cit}” 
was a vast expanse of nebulous light, spreading far and wide 
before the two voyagers like a faintly-luminous mist, aird in 
its furthest depths some conflagration tinged the sable clouds 
with a crimson flush. Nor could anything more be sent, 
except here and there a fitful gleam where the phosphorescent 
water boiled in the wake of the skiff. The mirthful frolic of 
the waves answered softly to the measured dip of the oars. 
In the distance, a furious panting told that some busy tug 
was stemming the tide with its unwieldy burden. A ferry- 
boat moved to its landing, shuddering audibly at the double 


PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


283 


clang of its gong. The little tug then hooted sudden warn- 
ing. No other sound was heard except the dull throbbing of 
a heavy fire-bell, beating its alarm. Now the lights began to 
grow distinct along the shore whither the two were bound. 
As they neared the western side, Flinteye’s vigilance was 
redoubled. He took his station in the stern again, with a 
single scull, and with the whispered order, “ For’ard, Bub- 
ber ; both eyes out ! ” 

The Brand crept forward, and crouched low in the bow. 
Soon the waves were heard, breaking along the docks, and 
then out of the darkness came dim forms of masts and spars 
towering aloft. Flinteye steered close under the shipping. 
Hidden by the daric shadows of the black hulls, he let the 
skiff float on the tide, guiding it b}" careful movements of the 
oar without the slightest noise. The Brand, with his face 
just over the prow, kept sharp watch ahead until the craft 
glided, unseen and unheard, beneath the shed of the Clover- 
Leaf. With the boat-hook, Flinteye opened the trap, and 
secured the upper end of his rope-ladder. The two ascended, 
and quickly drew up their freight and their tools. But the 
Brand came down again, before the ladder was raised and 
the trap closed, and silently returned the skiff to its mooring 
midway down the pier. That done, he clambered up the 
slippery logs, loitered along to the door of the Clover-Leaf, 
and disappeared inside. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 

Not many years had elapsed since Phoebe came to live at 
Mr. Babbon’s, and found there her Paradise. But the hap- 
piness of those earlier days was measured now only by her 
secret tears. The story of Dido dwelt in her thoughts ; and 
to herself she confessed that she had learned a sadder tale — 
of one more cruel than ^neas, of one more unhappy than 
the heart-broken queen. Dan’s visits had grown short and 
infrequent. At lengthening intervals he came only, as it 
seemed to Phoebe, to roam restlessly about the' place, waiting 


284 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


and watching for the first returning train. Several months 
had passed since she had seen him, and she was counting 
the days that must wear away before vacation, not hoping, 
as formerly, for pleasant rambles up the lanes, and delightful 
excursions in the woods or on the Sound, and evenings by 
the fireside, listening to his translations of Horace and Vir- 
gil, — but thinking always of the perfidious Trojan, and dread- 
ing the hour when Dan must forsake his home to seek his 
fortune in the wide world, and leave her more forlorn than 
the Tyrian princess. The chant of the mill-dam had lost its 
charm at last, and a sweet lullaby was no longer heard in the 
whispering elm. Surely, a darkening shadow rested on the 
household. One member of the family there was, however, 
whom no earthly gloom could wholly enfold, — one whose 
far-reaching and enraptured gaze was fixed upon a distant 
realm, and upon an effulgence which could not be obscured 
even by the blackness of Chaos. What wonder if she had 
little patience with those who let the trivialities of this gross 
world blind them to such glorious visions? Nor were it 
strange if nerves, that are but human, could not long endure 
the contemplation of such dazzling scenes without painful 
reaction. At all events, Mrs. Babbon’s petulance increased 
almost in proportion to her husband’s troubles. Besides her 
work-basket, the worthy lady had once had another safety- 
valve, — the “poor imbecile” in her kitchen. Formerly, 
when she felt the mainspring of her nerves wound tight, she 
had only to hurl herself into the presence of her handmaid, 
and she would run down at the utmost speed consistent with 
safety. But the demands of rigid economy having compelled 
her to part with Bridget, Phoebe had latterly performed the 
double functions of housemaid and safety-valve. One com- 
fort Phoebe had. She was sure of the sympathy of her 
adoptive father. If he could not venture to openly espouse 
her cause, he at least maintained a friendly neutrality. He 
alone had properly appreciated the worth of the “poor im- 
becile’s ” presence in his house, and often remarked, with 
great earnestness and unnoticed satire, “It’s a thousand 
pities we discharged that Bridget. She was really inval- 
uable.” 

But Mr. Babbon’s neutrality could not calm his wife’s 
tongue, nor restore the equilibrium of her nerves. Phoebe’s 


PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


285 


life grew more vexatious every day. Late one afternoon 
she was sitting under the great elm, trying to devise some way 
whereby she could relieve herself from a condition of de- 
pendence, when a low gasp thrilled in her ear. There was 
no mistaking that sound. No mortal lips could have uttered 
it save Deacon Biggot’s. Phoebe started, as she would have 
done at a hissing serpent in her path, and, looking up, saw 
that good man leaning upon the fence near by, as if seeking 
some material support under the pressure of his invisible 
pack. His eyes glittered strangely, with a sleepless, trucu- 
lent look, such as she had never seen, while his head kept 
beating time to heavenly music inaudible to other ears. 

“Dear young lady,” he began, “how beautiful it is to 
behold the young devoting their precious, go-olden, fl-eet- 
mg moments to spiritual meditation ! I could but think just 
now, as I witnessed thy serious countenance, verily she hath 
met with a great and glorious change. Is it thus, dear young 
lady? Hast thou learued to put on the garments of meek- 
ness and clothe thyself with the raiment of humility ? ” 

“No, sir,” Phoebe impatiently replied. “I don’t know 
that I’ve learned anything new on that subject, or, indeed, 
that I wish to. It seems to me better to cherish those vir- 
tues in one’s heart, than to wear them like a mask or a cloak. 
If we really practice them, we shall have the approval of our 
own consciences as well as that of all good people ; but if we 
use them only to cover moral deformities, they will prove too 
thin. We shall be despised by everybody. But you give 
me unmerited credit. There was nothing spiritual in my 
meditations, and, if I have met with any change, it has not 
been glorious.” 

Phoebe’s words wounded the deacon in his most vulnerable 
place, — his metaphorical pack. Confounded by the quick, 
sharp thrust, he panted and bit the air, while he irrelevantly 
bleated, “ Our days are like the grass ; ” and the movements 
of his head now indicated that the programme of the celes- 
tial musicians included a dead-march. In spite of her 
misery Phoebe could hardly forbear laughing. 

“ Mercy, Deacon Biggot ! ” she cried, “ what comfort you 
find in that simile ! Is it really such a cheering thought that 
our days are like the grass ? ” 

The deacon settled a few inches under his load of 


286 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


humility, and groaned out, “ Verily is this a stiff-necked 
generation. Yea, verily, verily^ this heart is swollen with 
* pride and hardened by sin. Dear young lady, let me warn 
you, oh ! let me beseech you, to turn from the error of your 
ways ! ” 

Language could not describe the contempt Phoebe felt for 
this ogre of her childhood. She hated his cant, and in- 
wardly scoffed at his sanctimonious air. More than that, she 
felt rising within her a determined intolerance of his petty 
persecution. 

“ Deacon Biggot ! ” she exclaimed, “my daily endeavor 
is to do my whole duty ; and my daily prayer is for help. 
Can you direct me better than the word of God, or show me 
a better example than our Saviour?” 

The deacon was unused to inquiries of this sort. Those 
whom he was accustomed to waylay were too much overawed 
by his reputation for sanctity, his quotations from Holy 
Writ, and, above all, by his invisible pack, to venture upon 
any troublesome questions. Astonished at Phoebe’s audacity, 
but remembering in his confusion a phrase that had proved 
very effective on one occasion, he waved his forefinger 
with a warning gesture, and bleated, in low chilling tones, 
“ Cleave not to any earthly love, for, saith the Scripture, 
one shall be taken and the other left.” 

Smiling at his evident discomposure, Phoebe saucily re- 
plied, ‘ ‘ So far as we are concerned, it is certainly a very 
happy prophecy ; for, if you, sir, were to be taken away 
from here, I should be glad to be left, and if I were to take 
myself away now, I should hope to leave you behind.” 

The implied suggestion was not obscure, but the deacon 
lingered. Phoebe wondered at the fierce glitter of his eyes, 
and at their strange, sleepless, sinister look, but suspected 
nothing of the terrible doom that was creeping silently upon 
him, and of which that wild expression was, as yet, the only 
herald. Had she understood it, anger would have yielded 
to pity, and contempt must have given way to terror. The 
deacon swallowed hungrily, as if forcing down a multitude 
of ideas, to bring them up again by a species of involuntary 
regurgitation like that of a ruminating animal. Then, start- 
ing his throttle- valves, and giving full play to his imagina- 
tion, he once more began, — 


PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


287 


“My dear young lady, how vividly, oh! how vividly do 
3 ’our words recall the language of another young miss, some 
thirteen years ago ! Oh, well do I remember that beautiful 
but sinful girl 1 ’Twas just such anotlier bright afternoon, 
and, as I drew near her father’s dwelling, I beheld her 
sitting beneath a tree.” 

“ Was she waiting for the supper-bell?” inquired Phoebe, 
with a cool impertinence hitherto unknown to her. “ Did 
she hurry away ? And are you positive, sir, it wasn’t her 
guardian’s dwelling? When I was a child you used to be 
very exact in such particulars.” 

The deacon winced, but, without heeding these questions, 
continued, “That fair girl was exactly, — that is, about 
eighteen jmars of age.” 

“/ think.,’' suggested Phoebe, “ it would be more impres- 
sive if you were to make it just seventeen years and two 
months. Eighteen is a great deal too old ; ” and the smile 
that accompanied these words was undeniably provoking. 

The good man made no comment, but vouchsafing Phoebe 
a malevolent look, continued, — 

“ Little did I anticipate the visitations that were so soon, 
oh I so soon., to fall upon that wayward maiden.” 

“Dear me!” ejaculated Phoebe. “Poor little maiden! 
But never mind the rest of it, sir ! I beg you won’t tax 
your skill any further for my entertainment. I admit you 
have a talent for bringing your characters into shocking 
catastrophes, but I feel no interest in their fate, and would 
much prefer to hear no more of that unfortunate young per- 
son’s history.” 

Between these two a crisis was manifestly impending. The 
deacon folded his brawny hands, gazing aloft with rolling 
eyes. He seemed near expiring in a fit of religious ecstasy. 
But, good man though he was, he had not yet succeeded in 
wholly extirpating those baser emotions which sometimes 
tarnish the lustre of the unregenerate soul. He was, in fact, 
‘planning revenge. Rejecting a stomachful of ideas at one 
gulp, he moaned, — 

‘ ‘ Dear young lady, I fear ’tis the evil example of that 
reckless youth that has led thee thus astray. Greatly, oh! 
r^reatliL flo I fear, some worthless idol of clay has won th^’ 
devotion of thy heart.” 


288 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Phoebe blushed deeper and deeper, and the holy man, 
assured that he had found the most favorable point of 
attack, began to work his flapping cheeks with new vigor. 

‘‘’Tis but a brief season,” he resumed, “since I was in 

the great and wicked city of N H . As I chanced 

to be passing a public square, I was fain to enter in and 
rest. It was an inviting spot. Spread out in the centre of 
that busy mart, it seemed a retreat where men might, for a 
few moments, forsake the cares of the world to meditate on 
spiritual things. But soon I found, alas ! that most of the 
seats were occupied by frivolous youths and maidens, — 
reckless, reckless votaries of sinful pleasure. Presently a 
couple entered, and sat down but a few steps from me. 
Well did I know that wild young man.” 

Phoebe’s aggravating humor was all gone. Her eyes were 
now fastened on the deacon with painful interest. 

“ A native of our village,” continued the good man, “ a 
pupil of mine in former years, and a wayward youth from 
his cradle. Often and faithfully had I striven with him, but 
sad, sad truth, my humble labors had all been vain. Too 
easy it was, alas ! to see that he was plunging recklessly 
along in his mad career.” 

Phoebe now seemed like one under the spell of some morbid 
fascination. Her breath came quick and short, as though a 
heavy weight were pressing on her bosom, while the color 
deserted her face. But the deacon, observing his advan- 
tage, followed it up with masterly skill. Unchristian malice 
smouldered in his eyes. Playing his valves, as though 
pumping his words from some deep cavern within, he con- 
tinued, — 

“ Never before had I seen the young lady who sat by his 
side, but oh ! she was surpassingly beautiful. Rarely have I 
beheld such loveliness in the human face. It was as if I wit- 
nessed an angelic vision. Unto myself I said, thus looked 
fair Esther when she won her king ; and such was the beau- 
teous Rachel, for whom young Jacob served seven years and 
counted them but a few days. And yet, I could but mourn, 
to think her treasure was not above, but in that worthless 
tabernacle of clay by her side. As he clasped her hand, 
and gazed so fondly into her beaming eyes, I saw, alas ! he, 
too, was worshipping an earthly idol.” 


PIKE BE RELATES A PARABLE. 


289 


The good man paused, to refresh his soul with a few deli- 
cious gasps, and the movements of his head signified that 
the inaudible music of the celestials was changing to a dirge. 
The atrocious falsehood had lodged, like a poisoned arrow, 
in Phoebe’s breast. She stood, pressing both hands to her 
bosom, with white cheeks and sealed lips, while seething 
emotions of wildest love and hate, of consuming jealousy 
and overwhelming despair, struggled fiercely for the mas- 
tery. The anguish in her face should have melted a heart 
of steel. The wily zealot was himself astonished at his 
success. But, not j^et glutted, he bleated for more. Other 
arrows lay in his quiver, and he was preparing to launch a 
final shaft, when his hand was stayed by the approach of 
Mrs. Babbon. The contemplation of her husband’s devo- 
tions at the shrine of Mammon having wound up the afflicted 
wife to within half a degree of the point where she must 
inevitably begin to run down, she had come to seek her 
safety-valve. But, at sight of good Deacon Biggot, a 
blissful serenity pervaded her agitated nerves. She ad- 
vanced to meet him with a smile of Christian welcome, as 
she supposed devout women of primitive churches were 
wont to smile when saluting the Apostles. He grasped her 
proffered hand with a fervor that she believed quite apos- 
tolic. 

“ Phoebe ! ’■ she cried, “ I am grieved and mortified that 
you should let Deacon Biggot stand here and never ask him 
in. I am perfectly ashamed of you ! ” 

With trembling lips Phoebe made answer, — 

“ Why, ma, I didn’t think it necessary, — he understands 
very well how to invite himself. Besides, he knows he’s 
always expected to come in, everywhere. People never 
think of inviting Deacon Biggot any more than they do the 
measles.” 

The deacon felt his vengeance not half complete, and 
gave Phoebe a glance of deep malignity, which changed, 
however, to a look of compassionate forgiveness as he saw 
Mrs. Babbon’s eyes returning from a boundless circle. That 
w'orthy soul was absolutely dumbfounded. Phoebe expected 
an explosion, and actually courted that calamity to distract 
her mind from the fierce tempest raging in her heart. But 
the good man’s presence wrecked that hope. Mrs. Babbon 


290 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


simply exclaimed, “Phoebe, you are a disgrace to this 
family ! ” 

Casting upon her a look of scorching rebuke, she then led 
the way to the house, and politely ushered in the tottering 
deacon. But Phoebe moved not. There she remained like 
one utterly crushed. Not once did she suspect that the 
deacon’s narrative was a sheer fabrication. To her it was, 
rather, as if a noted liar had told the truth. Only too well 
it explained Dan’s long absence, and his seeming indiffer- 
ence. How she longed to see the rival who had ensnared 
her lover, — to look upon the matchless beauty that had 
robbed her of her priceless treasure, and learn the secret of 
her charms ! How desolate she stood, and, gazing up into 
the dome of the mighty elm, as if seeking one ray of hope, 
heard it mocking her despair with a thousand whispering 
voices ! Then wistfully, down over the sloping lawn, she 
turned her eyes upon the lumps of foam that floated from 
the dam, to melt on the tranquil river, envying their early, 
peaceful death. Not long did she stand thus, however, be- 
fore she was summoned by the pungent voice of her adoptive 
mother, who was unwilling that any member of her house- 
hold should lose the benefit of the holy influence shed around 
by good Deacon Biggot ; for Mrs. Babbon was fully per- 
suaded that the saintly man could enter no dwelling without 
bringing a blessing. Nor is it by any means certain that 
she woifld not have gone out to the hedges and highways, to 
compel people to come in and share it, but that there were 
no hedges in that vicinity, and few people were ever to be 
seen on the highways of that village. The others were 
already at the table when Phoebe came in and took her seat, 
in silent obedience. Mrs. Babbon sat, with folded hands, in 
a state of pious anticipation, and, as soon as all was quiet, 
she said, “ Deacon Biggot, will you ask a blessing?” 

The deacon graciously complied, and acquitted himself 
with rare unction, seeing that his appetite had been in no 
wise appeased by the quantity of ideas which he had swal- 
lowed ; and, while he was thus engaged, Mrs. Babbon’s 
countenance proclaimed that she was tasting the early fru- 
ition of pious anticipation. 

“ And yovr orators will ever pray,” thought her husband, 
but he said nothing. The table presented a sorry appear- 


PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


291 


ance, contrasted with that of former days. But the worthy 
lady believed it all the more likely to win the deacon’s appro- 
bation, the nearer it resembled, in simplicity, the fare of the 
early disciples. Doubtless she would have been made 
supremely happy by a dish of locusts and wild honey. 

“We content ourselves with a frugal board,” she observed, 
“ as becomes those who walk humbly.” 

“ Nay, beloved sister,” returned the deacon, “ rather say 
delicious viands. Consider how many meek and lowly fol- 
lowers have not a morsel to eat this night. I well remember 
hearing a poor missionary once state that he had subsisted 
Jive weeks solely upon cucumbers.” 

“ Rather a light diet, deacon,” Mr. Babbon suspiciously 
remarked, and with that laconic opinion he relapsed into 
silence, abandoning his heart, forthwith, to the fangs of the 
canker-worm. In view of the fact that the author of the 
statement was Deacon Biggot, and his subject a missionary, 
her husband’s words, in Mrs. Babbon’s ears, sounded like 
the language of bold infidelity. But not even actual blas- 
phemy could have wound her up, while basking in the holy 
influence that radiated from good Deacon Biggot. She only 
sighed, and by a glance disclaimed all part and lot in Mr. 
Babbon's incredulity. With preternatural calmness she then 
observed, — 

“ Mr. Babbon, there are some preserves.” 

The ravages of the canker-worm were, for the moment, 
suspended. 

“Certainly, my dear,” Mr. Babbon replied with cheerful 
acquiescence, and atoned for his oversight as fast as he could. 
When he had finished, his wife again remarked, — 

“Perhaps some of the syrup would be acceptable, Mr. 
Babbon.” 

Certainly,” he answered. “Take some syrup, dea- 
con ? ” 

Having repaired the second oversight, he made a careful 
survey to see that he had neglected nothing else, and once 
more resigned his vitals to the depredations of the worm. 
And the worm had made havoc of late. Apparently its task 
was near done. Mr. Babbon seemed like one devoid of help 
or hope, patiently waiting for the end. 

That was a frigid repast. There was no warmth in the 


292 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


sacred rays that issued from Deacon Biggot, and, somehow, 
the air of the room was ominous of a coming storm. Phcebe 
barely touched her food nor spoke a word. Her face kept 
its unwonted pallor, as if all the blood within had rushed 
back upon the heart, and found there no power to drive it 
forth again. But the tempest was not sleeping beneath that 
marble exterior. 

Mrs. Babbon said nothing to her adopted daughter, but 
showed every attention to her guest. She was bent upon 
inflicting open punishment on Phoebe, while she made the 
fullest amends for her discourtesy. Under her lead, the 
dialogue turned upon a class whose God was Mammon, and, 
while the good man was delivering his happiest hits upon 
those idolaters, the countenance of the afflicted wife and 
mother hinted that some one near by might profit by his re- 
marks. But the attention of the individual in question was 
wholly engrossed by the canker-worm. He gave no sign 
that he heard the deacon’s denunciations, nor did any of his 
wife’s signals attract his notice ; and yet, he had a partial 
consciousness of somebody filing him, in the region of an old, 
numb scar, — a vague feeling as if some coarse intruder 
were disturbing the repose that ought to follow the worm. 
It was certainly an uncomfortable meal. Even Mrs. Babbon 
began to have presentiments of a storm from some unknown 
quarter. She redoubled her attentions, and endeavored, with 
femiuine tact and volubilit3% to infuse a more cheerful feel- 
ing into the little circle. Worldly topics were barely touched 
upon. They were supposed to be unfamiliar to the deacon. 
But the condition of the Punjaub was canvassed with spirit. 
Madagascar was not neglected. There were tidings from the 
Bulgarians and the Nestorians. There was cheering news 
from Otaheite also, and eke from Ceylon. The eternal pros- 
pects of red tribes were compared with those of yellow 
hordes, and some consideration was bestowed upon the 
chances of the Turks, if any they had, in the Kingdom. 
The final salvation of the Esquimaux furnished a difficult 
problem, and black souls from the Gold Coast were brought 
upon the carpet. At length, however, the deacon rested 
from the viands, and had finished the heathen. Once more 
his head began marking time, in a manner which signified 
that the inaudible concert of the celestials had begun again. 


PHOEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


293 


His words were addressed to Mrs. Babbon, but his subtle 
eyes. he aimed at Phoebe’s face, which, only for its pale- 
ness, gave no sign of the tumult within. All he discovered 
there was cold disdain. 

“-Beloved sister,” he began, “ I was just now thinking of 
the time when a departing one entrusted to your care a little 
maiden.” 

‘ ‘ Please excuse me, sir ! ” said Phoebe, rising from her 
chair. 

“ Phoebe ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon, “ I am amazed. Sit 
down ! You cannot be excused.” 

Phoebe obeyed, tingling in every nerve, quivering in every 
fibre. 

“ Faithfully, indeed, have you discharged that trust,” con- 
tinued the deacon ; “ and yet I fear, oh ! I /ear,-the Adver- 
sary still triumphs in that unregenerate bosom. Is it not 
the sad truth, dear young lady ? ” 

Phoebe started as though stung by some venomous reptile. 
The storm had come. Raging passions, hitherto kept down, 
gathered instantly as under one leader, sweeping away in a 
furious blast all restraints of hospitality, all deference to her 
superiors, all thought of further endurance, and converging 
swiftly into a whirlwind of hate. A moment she struggled 
for self-control. Then her heart throbbed fast, as if un- 
chained, and the hot, scarlet tide flooded lip, cheek, and 
brow. 

“Deacon Biggot ! ” she cried, “I, too, am thinking of 
what has -transpired. In a certain village lived a notorious 
man. Many people despised and detested him, and not a few 
feared or hated him ; but he was respected by none. Some 
called him a Pharisee, saying he chose the highest seat in the 
synagogue, made long prayers for a pretense, and compassed 
sea and land for one proselyte. Others called him a hypo- 
crite, who cleaned not the outside, and was full of unclean- 
ness within ; or they likened him to a sepulchre, not whited, 
but filled with abominations. Some said he was sincere, 
but declared that long devotion to one narrow idea had un- 
balanced his reason. They thought him a religious mono- 
maniac. Many believed his chief trait was a blind zeal that 
would have driven everybody to adopt his views, or suffer 
the fagot and stake. Not a few affirmed that he constantly 


294 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


aimed to incur public odium, that he might enjoy the text, 
‘ Blessed are ye when men shall revile you.’ But all agreed 
that he was a busybody, and the pest of the community. 
You perceive, sir, he was clearly a bigot.” 

Phoebe rested an instant, but neither saw how Mr. Babbon 
was roused from his lethargy, nor how far sunk his wife was 
in speechless stupefaction. In a manner that brooked no 
interruption, she rapidly continued, — 

“Now, this man had no children of his own, but he 
had taken an orphan boy to bring up in his family ; and, as 
he was a man of violent temper, that child, of course, led a 
dog’s life. If ever he asked for bread, his keeper gave him 
a stone ; if ever he asked for fish, he gave him a serpent.” 

“For shame!” screamed Mrs. Babbon, waking from her 
stupor. “ Phoebe, leave this room ! ” 

“Daughter!” cried Mr. Babbon, in a stern voice, “do 
you sit still ! Your story is true to the life, and I won’t see 
you tormented any longer. While I am yet the owner of 
this house. I’ll be its master ; ” and, having unfurled the 
flag of rebellion, he saluted it with a loud blow upon the 
table. 

A striking change had come over the deacon. He rose 
transformed. His brain was all a-flame, and madness 
burned like fire in his eyes. 

“ Beloved sister, flee to the Rock of Ages ! ” he thundered. 
‘ ‘ Look not behind ! Hasten ! for the day of wrath cometh 
upon the scorner ! Woe unto him ! Destruction cometh 
like a deluge, and swift destruction like a flood. I’m a spirit ! 
I’m a prophet ! I’m a child of light ! ” 

Glaring a moment like a wild beast at Phoebe, he shook off 
his invisible pack and strode out of the house. 

“ That man’s going crazy!” exclaimed Mr. Babbon, in a 
voice of great excitement. 

His wife made no answer. 

“Don’t you think he’s lost his senses?” he inquired. 

Mrs. Babbon uttered a hollow groan. 

“ One idea, one idea ! ” he burst out again. “ That’s all 
there ever was in him. He’s been riding it these thirty years. 
It’s riding him now ; and it’ll run him to Bedlam. Don’t 
talk to me ! I say he’s going stark mad ! ” 

“ Who, under the eternal heavens, is talking to him?” de* 


PHCEBE RELATES A PARABLE. 


295 


manded Mrs. Babbon. “Ami? No; but I will talk. Mr. 
Babbon, you may abuse your wife to your heart’s content. 
You may proclaim that you are her master, and encourage 
an alien to insult her guests. She can, and does, bear it all 
with patience. But remember ! there’s one thing can’t be done. 
You can never avert the judgments of Heaven by calling 
Deacon Biggot a madman. You may drive him from my 
house, but 1 shall still believe what he says ; that he is a 
prophet and a true child of the light.” 

As Mrs. Babbon ceased, a beautiful expression of angelic 
resignation dawned on her face, and stillness reigned un- 
broken, save by the clock Mr. Babbon abruptly left the 
table to return to the papers in his desk, while Phoebe hur- 
ried to her own room to sit at the window, thinking of Dan. 
Once again she seemed to see him lying under the chestnut 
tree, his white hand resting on the throat of his grim foe, and 
his great black eyes opening at the kiss she gave him. She 
recalled the hours when he lay, so pale and still, while she 
sat by his bedside trembling with fear and hope. She dwelt 
on the delightful rambles they had when his strength re- 
turned. Then, like rank venom frothing at her heart, and 
poisoning the very fountain of her life, came the bit- 
ter thought, that, perhaps even then he was holding the hand 
of that beautiful siren. From the depths of her soul came 
the cry, “ Oh, Dan ! would that we had both died with 
Bevor ! ” 

The giant elm answered with its thousand mocking tongues. 
The mill-dam chanted its unceasing monotone. The moon, 
mounting over the house, withdrew her light from the apart- 
ment. From the church-bell the heavy hours struck, sad 
and solemn, on the still air, then beat again and again as 
with a leaden hammer, upon the aching brain, then died 
away in the drowsy ear, and were heard no more. Phoebe’s 
head lay pillowed upon the window-sill. She had found rest 
from her agony in sleep. But not again should she envy the 
death of the foam on the placid stream, and for the last time 
she had heard a mocking voice in the whispering ehn. 


29G 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

RESULTS ACCOMPLISHED BY THE CANKER-WORM. 

A FAINT, nebulous light spread along the eastern sky, and 
brightened there, while it climbed to the zenith and crept 
onward down the glittering dome, drawing its gray veil over 
the waning stars. Phoebe still sat by the open window. 
But she had found forgetfulness in slumber, as not unfre- 
quently happens when torturing suspense is ended by over- 
whelming certainty. A cool delicious air, laden with the 
sweets of garden and mead, came from the sea, like incense 
wafted from some distant altar. The dim landscape looked 
forth from the darkness near at hand, cleared, and stretched 
aw^ay. Over the Wepawaug the lazy mist rose slowly, and 
one by one the birds came from their nightly bowers, making 
the welkin echo with joyful songs. The morning star 
twinkled low, and paled, and lingered. Meanwhile, the east- 
ern heavens began to glow with a golden sheen, growing 
brighter and more beautiful, until the gorgeous splendor of 
the sunbeams flashed far and wide, over tree, and plain, and 
river, making the green sward glisten with its gossamer 
webs, sowing the meadows with sparkling gems, filling the 
world above with purest azure, and almost effacing the 
moon’s round disc near the western horizon. The blue mill- 
pond, brimming with its hoard and darkened, here and there, 
wdth long, umber shadows, poured over the dam its silvery 
wealth. Above the waterfall, little jets of spray, and widen- 
ing circles on the clear surface, marked the dip of the swal- 
lows in their rapid flight. In the great elm, part of the 
population had already begun the busy toil of the day, and 
others had gone to sleep, after the revels of the night. Other 
ephemeral thousands sported in the sunlight, only to fall a 
prey to the birds, or escaped their rapacious throats to die in 
the chill evening air. In the gardens, the flowers unfolded 
fresh petals to the sun and offered their nectar to the bees ; 
ill the orchards, the robins fed their young, filling all the air 


THE CANKER-WORM. 


297 


with melody ; in the meadows, the clear, bold note of the 
quail called forth an answering whistle from the cow-boys 
loitering along the lanes ; and Phmbe, waking amidst the lavish 
glories of that fair morning, turned her face to the north-east, 
gazing long and wistfully, far away under the blue vault, as 
if her eyes could pierce the distance and rest upon her be- 
loved. In her dreams, she had walked hand-in-hand with 
him, and heard him say that the daisies knew he loved her. 
But a handsome stranger crossed their path, and Dan left her 
side. She saw him, then, holding the hand of the stranger 
who, looking back with triumph in her eyes, plucked the 
petals from a daisy and cried, “ He loves me ! ” 

From that distressful vision, she awakened with the dea- 
con’s cruel words still ringing in her ears: “Thus looked 
fair Esther when she won her king ; and such was the 
beauteous Rachel, for whom young Jacob served seven years., 
and counted them but a few days.” 

Sick at heart, she made her way down-stairs. Mr. Bab- 
bon sat at his desk, writing a letter, and at sight of him 
Phoebe forgot her own misery. His white head was bowed 
low over the paper, and the pen shook as if it would fall 
from his hand. Unconscious of her presence, he exclaimed, 
in a broken voice, — 

“ Thank God ! my son is left.” 

Phoebe drew near and kissed him. She then impulsively 
cried, “ Pa ! I wish that desk was burned, — and everything 
inside it. Nothing but trouble ever comes out of it for you. 
I dread to see you sit down here. Now, pa, don’t worry any 
more over those old lawsuits ! I actually believe they’re 
killing you.” 

His iron features softened a liLtle, and it seemed as if a 
moisture gathered beneath his. dry eyelids ; and oh ! how 
kind and gentle his stern voice sounded to Phmbe as he 
answered, — 

“ Yes, daughter, man is born unto trouble, and I’ve had my 
share. Yes, I am sick of trouble and care. I’ve fought them 
while strength lasted, but a man can’t stem the tide forever. 
There’s nobody for me to look to but Dan. I’m writing 
to him now. Daughter, shall I say a word for you? ” 

With trembling lips she began, “ Tell him to come — oh, 
no! Nothing. Nothing.’' 


298 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


She threw her arms around his neck, and her face fell on 
his shoulder. 

“ Only this,” she sobbed. “ Tell him the daisies know !” 

A moment she rested there, like a drooping flower, cling- 
ing to some bleak, hoary ruin. But, to him, this cry of a 
breaking heart was only an empty sound. All he discov- 
ered in her passionate grief was sympathy with his own 
distress. 

“ There, there, daughter,” he said, and stroked her hair 
with his frosty hand, as if he would hush a crying child. 
“ It isn’t all over with us. Dan may do something for us 
yet. He is young and good looking ; — he may marry a 
fortune.” 

Unclasping her arms, Phoebe reeled as though struck a 
mortal blow, and then went out, without a word, but with 
another arrow quivering in her heart. 

“ I vum to Gracious ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon, as soon 
as she came in view. Phoebe ! your eyes look, for all the 
world, like two rings of red tomato. Why on earth have 
you been crying? If it were for your shameful language to 
beacon Biggot, I wouldn’t say a word, — except to praise 
your penitence. But it isn’t. It’s nothing but namby-pam- 
by, and I loon't allow it. I’d sooner see you turn out even a 
spitfire. My mother never would tolerate a snivelling girl. 
No more will I. We don’t come of snivelling blood, in our 
family, — nor you either, on your mother’s side. Your great- 
great-grandfather never did it, — not even when the Pequots 
had him staked fast to the ground. Remember your blood, 
Phoebe, in the days of your youth ! If tempted to snivel, 
pra}^ for help and you will overcome ! As for your behavior 
last night, that blood, I suspect, comes from the other side. 
For aught I know, there may have been one or two of those 
verv Pequots somewhere in the line. But rest assured that, 
somehow, the matter must be set right with Deacon Biggot ! 
I will think it over, and to-morrow you shall have my 
decision. Now don’t dawdle ! Get the breakfast ready, 
like a sensible, practical girl, while I feed those poor, famish- 
ing fowls. Two mortal hours, by the clock, they’ve been 
screeching themselves out of their skins. I declare it would 
melt the heart of an Arab, to hear them, — a Bedouin Arab.” 

To the speaker those sounds were truly harrowing. She 


THE CANKER-WORM. 


2‘)9 


darted away for her hood, gloves, and rubbers, and re- 
appeared, fully equipped. The next moment she was 
out by the barn, sounding her clarion-call, and her pets, 
borne on the wings of the wind, were speeding towards her 
with wide-spread pinions and outstretched necks. While 
they struggled and fought, she encouraged the feeble and 
threatened the robust. A stinging admonition to moderate his 
transports provoked a loud squawk from the Grand Turk of 
the feathered harem. But, to his stripling rivals, her 
judicious whip meted out milder penalties. At length all 
were fed and counted, and she returned to the house with a 
consciousness of duty done. The breakfast was made read}^, 
and the family triangle was described around the table. 

“ Pa, did you say we are going away?” inquired Phoebe, 
as she took her place at the family apex. 

Mrs. Babbon, at one angle of the base, folded her hands 
expectantly and waited, suspicious of strategy. 

“ Yes, daughter,” said Mr. Babbon, trying to hide, b}^ the 
sternness of his face, the emotion that his voice betrayed. 
“We shall move to New York.” 

For once, Mrs. Babbon was startled from an attitude of 
devotion. She gazed around, like one who deemed hei*self 
the subject of hallucination, and, appealing to some invisible 
interpreter, demanded, — 

“ What on earth does he mean? ” 

Apparently enlightened, she continued, “Mr. Babbon, 
you know better. We shall do no such thing. But, even if 
we did, I should think it wouldn’t come amiss to ask a bless- 
ing first.” 

“ My dear,” Mr. Babbon replied, with more firmness than 
tenderness, “ I said we should. As for the blessing, I don’t 
care to ask it, — I don’t look for one, any more.” 

Mrs. Babbon’s eyes swept an infinite field. The truth had 
been hidden by her husband, almost to the last hour, and 
now she did not comprehend it in the least. But such 
callous indifference to a blessing wound her, instantl}", to the 
last turn. 

“ You do not care for a blessing ! ” she exclaimed. “ Nei- 
ther does the Grand Llama, nor the Khan of Khiva. Good- 
ness ! One would think it some heathen potentate, trampling 
a prostrate serf, and not poor little John Babbon, abusing 


300 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


his afflicted wife. Phoebe, don’t say no ! He does do it. 
Mr. Babbon, if yon want to move away, why, under the 
everlasting heavens, you? I vum to mercy ! I wdsh 

you’d take bag and bag.' ;age and go, this blessed minute. As 
for myself and this fatherless orphan, we will stay here, if 
you please.” 

“It is not that I want to go,” said Mr. Babbon. “I’m 
sure I should be glad to stay.” 

The seriousness of those few words ought to have opened 
Mrs. Babbon’s eyes. But she was too excited to perceive 
their weight. 

“ Don’t waver,” she returned. “ Don’t let your resolution 
fail. After having expressed your determination to leave 
this house and home, it would appear exceedingly weak- 
minded to abandon your purpose. Above all things, don’t 
hesitate on our account ! I dare say we shall do very well 
without you. But please answer one question. If you don’t 
want to go, why, under the eternal heavens, do you talk of 
it? It can’t be because I desire you to go. Is there any- 
body else that wishes it? Answer me that, if you please ! ” 

“Yes, my dear, there is,” said Mr. Babbon. 

“ There is?” echoed his wife, in boundless amazement and 
utter incredulity. “ Indeed ! Who is it? ” 

To which, in a scarcely audible voice, he replied, — 

“ The sheriff.” 

Those two quiet words fell like a thunderbolt. Mrs. Bab- 
bon stared at her husband in blank dismay. With a striking 
change of tone and manner, she said, — 

“ John ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ In five hours,” replied Mr. Babbon, “this house — the 
last of my property — will be sold by the sheriff. It’s the 
work of that black-hearted Gridly.” 

The thunderbolt had indeed struck, but could not. break, 
that indomitable spirit. It was firmly fixed in Mrs. Bab- 
bon’s belief that Christian fortitude was equal to every emer- 
gency. Her adamantine soul rested on a sure foundation, from 
which the blows of adversity must rebound, and the darts of 
the Arch-enemy himself glance harmless. Perhaps that un- 
conquerable nature w^as not wholly born of her religious 
creed. It may well have lived a century before, and been 
transmitted from the veins of some stern Puritan, who had 


THE CA NKER- WO R M. 


aoi 


tamed those savage Pequots. Not only was it invincible, 
but it could even find melancholy consolation in temporal 
ruin. 

“ I knew it, oh ! I kneio it,” moaned Mrs. Babbon, recov- 
ering a little from the first shock. “Have I not declared 
that judgments must come? Have I not warned you, riches 
have wings? Have I not entreated, and begged, and prayed, 
and besought you to forsake the ways of Mammon ? ” 

“Wife!” said Mr. Babbon, “reproaches are useless. 
The blow has come, and we must bear it the best we can. 
My arrangements are all made. I have rented a place in 
New York, where we shall, at least, escape the sneers and 
insults of our neighbors.” 

It was really wonderful to see how fast the worthy lady 
grew composed. 

“John,” said she, “you know very well my wishes are 
few and humble. I covet neither wealth, nor position, nor 
worldly pleasure. But there’s one boon I crave. It is, that 
you will not, eternally, accuse me of reproaching you. If 
we must leave this house, — if you have speculated and 
gambled, yes, worse than gambled, away our beautiful home, 
of course I go with you. When poverty comes in at your 
door, you will find out what it is to have a wife with a stout 
heart and true Christian courage.” 

If any thought crystallized, just then, in Mr. Babbon’s 
brain, it was that he felt, already, well acquainted with those 
advantages. 

“And you, too, Phoebe,” added Mrs. Babbon; “you’ll 
live to thank your Heavenly Father that you’ve had a mother 
to teach you something practical. Where would a poor, 
little, weakly, watery-eyed doll be, now9 On the high road 
to ruin. Where would a flimsy, giggling, turtle-backed girl 
go, under these circumstances, with her namby-pamby and 
her tinkij-taiikyf Straight to destruction. But, if your lot 
is to sew for a living, you’ve learned it well. If to teach 
music, you are capable. If you have to keep house, you know 
how, and have the force to do it. If you must get married, 
only curb your temper, and keep the grace of God in your 
heart, and you’ll be a match for the best, if it is I that say 
it. But don’t let it make you vain. Turn ofe thine eyes 
from beholding vanity 1 Remember, always, the Lord 


802 


A YOUNG DISOIPLE. 


loveth an humble and contrite heart! Now, John, I want 
to ask one question. Don’t equivocate ! Tell the plain 
truth ! Have you provided a place for my fowls? ” 

“ My dear,” replied Mr. Babbon, “ it was all I could do 
to provide a place for ourselves.” 

Here the adamantine soul rocked a little, but settled more 
firmly on its solid base. A transient look of pain flitted over 
the pale, oval face, and was chased away by heavenly resig- 
nation, as the sunshine follows the flying shadow of a cloud. 
Mr. Babbon left the room. His wife regarded Phoebe with 
deep commiseration. 

“ My poor child I” said she, “ I hope you are prepared for 
our fate. Do you imagine what that fate is ? ” 

Phoebe, thinking only of Dan, looked up with a face full 
of suffering, while she answered, — 

“ No, ma ; but I am sure it will be something dreadful.” 

“ Well,” continued the other, with unnatural but inflnite 
relish, “ it is the fate of beggary. We are mendicants and 
wanderers. That is where we are brought by Mammon. 
Don’t say no, Phoebe ! It is the truth. We have become 
beggars and vagrants, — vagabonds on the face of the earth. 
Now, at. my time of life, I must set out to make a new home, 
— must expose an orphan child to the temptations of a 
modern Sodom. Phoebe, haven’t you anything to say? I 
declare it tries my patience, to see you sit moping, while we 
are all going to destruction.” 

Oh I ma, what will Dan do, now? ” cried Phoebe, hardly 
daring to speak that name. “ Will he come home? ” 

“ Home!” echoed Mrs. Babbon. “ Phcebe, we have no 
home. But, I trust, great things are. in store for Dan. I 
hope to see him a chosen vessel, yet, — not a weak, sinful 
worlding, gathering gold, but a noble missionary, doing his 
Master’s work.” 

Having expressed that sustaining hope, the worthy lady 
called out, “ Mr. Babbon, have you sent any instructions to 
your neglected son ? ” 

From an adjoining room came the reply that Dan was to 
wait till his graduation-day and then join them in the city. 
Tliis Phcebe heard, before she slipped out of the house, to 
look once more up the lane where she used to rove hand-in- 
hand with Dan, — to pluck a bough from the hemlock she 


THE CANKER-^YORM. 


ao8 

had helped him plant, and to find their names, cut by his hand, 
in the bark of the maple near the barn. Pressing her lips 
to the letters, she sighed, “ He loved me, then.” 

She wandered to her favorite place under the elm, and 
thought of the many times they had sat there together. The 
myriad leaves gave forth no whisper now. Not a breath of 
air was stirring in the vast expanse. But, surely, a wood 
nymph dwelt there. Out of the silent shadows, far up among 
the sw’arthy branches, like the compassionate sigh of some 
gentle spirit from her home in the tree, came a faint, tender, 
mournful voice, — 

‘ ‘ Phoebe ! Phoebe ! ” 

It was her little namesake. 

“Oh, phoebe-bird ! ” burst from her wounded heart, 
“ would that I had died while he loved me ! Oh, phoebe-bird, 
how can I live ! ” 

She turned her steps away to the house, and, far aloft be- 
hind her, that sweet plaintive voice, like two soft notes upon 
some fairy flute, came once more from the still shadows, 
faintly crying its sad farewell. 

“ Now, Phoebe, do stop sniffling and come in ! ” called out 
Mrs. Babbou, whose unshaken soul was growing almost 
cheerful, as new sources of consolation suggested themselves, 
'riie vindication of prophecy was a rich placer, for the worthy 
lady had long predicted a chastening Hand, and a huge nug- 
get of comfort was found in the thought that, now, her hus- 
band must, perforce, cease bowing to his false God. But 
her chief mine of solace was the opportunity of displaying 
what a tower of strength one might find amidst earthly calami- 
ties. She even fancied that she could feel some of those 
ecstatic emotions with which the martyrs were wont to hail 
the fagot or the rack. Phoebe found her entrenched in a 
barricade of trunks, boxes, and piles of clothing, singing and 
working with might and main. With beaming eyes and 
a radiant countenance she devoutly chanted, — 

“ Resigned, when storms of sorrow low’r, 

My soul shall meet Thy will.” 

A monotonous voice came, like a response, from the desk 
where her husband was tying up his papers, “And your 
orators will ever pray.’ - 


304 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Again she chanted, — 

“ My lifted eye without a tear 
The gath’ring storm shall see ; ” 


And once more that automaton voice responded, — 

“ And your orators will ever pray.” 

“ Mr. Babbon,” said Mrs. Babbon, “ if you are one of the 
orators, I should like to know when they will begin.” 

Her husband turned towards her with a look of vague 
inquiry. 

“ Can you tell me?” she continued, with the pertinacity of 
one not to be baffled. 

“ Tell you what, my dear?” 

“ When the orators will begin to pray. Don’t you think 
it time they had begun, long ago? Aside from the question 
of duty, — not that I don’t regard it the paramount question, 
but waiving it for the present, — don’t you think it would be 
policy to begin now? Haven’t you made thorough trial of 
one course of life? Haven’t you prostrated and prostrated 
yourself at the altar of Mammon, in season and out, year in 
and year, out? Yes, worse than prostrated — you’ve fairly 
grovelled. What is the result? Ragged poverty. Well, 
then, waiving the question of duty, I appeal to base motives 
of policy. Doesn’t mere wordly wisdom dictate a new rule of 
life? Now that you see how Mammon serves his blind 
worshippers, don’t your own unbiassed judgment command 
you to tear yourself from his shrine? Answer me, Mr. 
Babbon, if you please ! Tell me candidly what you think.” 

“ I think,” coldly replied Mr. Babbon, “ you will need 
every minute of your time to get ready.” 

That unfeeling answer upheaved the soul which the 
thunderbolt had not shaken. Mrs. Babbon would have col- 
lapsed instantly, only that, of late, her husband had 
abandoned the practice of applying restoratives, and had 
permitted her to collapse, as often as she chose, without being 
in any way disturbed thereby. She did not swoon, there- 
fore, but a look of dire affliction for a moment usurped the 
chosen haunt of heavenly resignation. 

‘‘ Phcebe ! ” she cried, “ did you ever hear the like? Did 
you ever dream of it?” 


THE CANKER-WORM. 


305 


* To which Phoebe truthfully and pointedly replied, — 

‘‘No, ma, never,” and made herself as busy as she could, 
seeking relief from her own misery in the excitement of prep- 
aration for them journey. 

“ And yet,” resumed Mrs. Babbou, picking up the thread 
which her husband had dropped, “ however short the time, I 
suppose I have the right to speak. Nay, chain these feeble 
limbs with bonds of iron, if you wish ! But there’s one thing 
you cannot do. You can never seal my lips.” 

“ And your orators will ever pray,” sighed her inattentive 
husband. 

“ Do you hear me, Mr. Babbon?” she inquired. “ I say 
you may depend upon it, you can never chain my tongue.” 

“ No, my dear,” he quietly assented, “ I’ve long believed 
it a hopeless undertaking.” 

Mrs. Babbon’s piercing black eyes remained fastened upon 
her husband with a stony stare, only a moment, then roved 
over an imaginary cloud of witnesses, with a look well fitted 
to draw sympathy from steely hearts. The next minute she 
glanced upward to the highest heaven, and her celestial 
visitant at once banished all traces of dire affliction, and 
again brooded over her face. By a heroic effort, she re- 
strained her accumulated nerve-power from escaping through 
her mouth, and compelled it to explode upon the articles 
they were to take with them ; — and with results. Trunks, 
boxes, and barrels, were filled with incredible despatch. Only 
once again Mrs. Babbon lost her patience long enough to 
exclaim, “I declare to Gracious! Phcebe, your eyes are 
flaming red. Do stop that eternal sniffling ! You look like 
a perfect fright.” 

A vivid recollection flashed through Phoebe’s mind, and 
trembled in her heart. Once before those last words had 
been spoken, because she wept when Dan was going away. 
She had asked him if he thought so, too ; and never could 
she forget the look, or the accent, with which fie answered, — 

“ Just the kind of fright I love.” 

Mrs. Babbon was kneeling beside a collection of sacred 
books, and measuring with her eyes the capacity of a trunk. 
Phoebe made desperate efforts to hide her emotion. But, 
passing by the desk where Mr. Babbou was employed, her 
eye fell on something which made her heart give a sudden 


306 


A YOUNG DISCI PLU. 


bouDd. It was an unopened letter, addressed to herself, 
lying among a heap of envelopes wiiere, evidently, it had 
been mislaid or carelessly dropped. She could hardly repress 
the cry that leaped to her lips. She gazed entranced at the 
familiar hand, for it was from Dan. She dared not touch it ; 
she could not move. A visible trembling took possession of 
her, while her cheeks flushed and paled by turns. She 
scarcely breathed. 

“ Here, daughter,” said Mr. Babbon ; “ you’d better burn 
these. They’re all empty.” 

Quick as a flash, she had caught them up and was out of 
the room ; and, behind her, an unheeded voice of approba- 
tion cried, — 

“That’s right, Phoebe. ‘Do with your might what your 
hands find to do ! ’ ” 

Unseen, she tore the missive open, read a line, then 
pressed it to her bosom with one deep sob of convulsive joy. 
It was a talisman from her beloved, at sight whereof the 
deacon’s poisoned arrow fell from her breast, the deadly 
venom left her veins, and the rankling wound was forever 
healed. From her heart the heavy load was lifted, as at the 
touch of some magic wand, and now, once more, the vital 
currents flowed fast and free, creating anew that inimitable 
color on lip and cheek, calling their lost lustre back to the 
innocent eyes, restoring to every movement its wonted grace, 
to every feature its matchless beauty. That abyss of de- 
spair, into which a ruthless demon had hurled her shuddering 
soul, vanished as by the incantation of some mighty conjur- 
er. Gone like a fleeting, horrible dream was all her an- 
guish. Before her lay a glorious region whose limit no 
mortal eye could discern, — a fair domain of undying love. 
She stood like one transfigured, and, as if some mysterious 
charm lived in the words, whereby they might fly like a 
dove to her absent lover, she murmured, — 

“ Oh, Dan ! now I’m sure it’s true. The daisies know.” 

She ventured not to delay longer, but hastened back to the 
others and endeavored to hide her precious secret in the ex- 
citement of making ready for their removal. The busy w'ork 
went on with new alacrity. To Phoebe, the catastrophe that 
had befallen the household was but a trifle, compared with 
the fate from which she had escaped. More than once her 


MR. QRIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


307 


efficient help elicited emphatic praise from Mrs. Babbon. 
And that resolute soul seemed to have awakened, at last, to 
a consciousness of her besetting infirmity, and to be engaged 
with all her powers in tempering her Christian fortitude with 
gentleness. Perhaps the eye of faith had wandered from 
the contemplation of a distant realm, and had discovered 
something of importance hitherto overlooked, though near at 
hand. It may be that the fretful but excellent woman had 
caught a glimpse of some destructive work, other than that 
of the canker-worm, and had been softened as well as star- 
tled thereby. At all events, it is certain that a remarkable 
change was observed in her. From that hour, the stream of 
her galling ill-humor began to dwindle, and her little rill of 
acrid complaint ran dry. Thenceforth, she cultivated tender 
shoots of kindliness and seeds of forbearanee, around the 
rock of her Christian fortitude, with an assiduity that prom- 
ised to cover its asperities with perennial flowers. Only one 
impatient speech was heard from her during all the confu- 
sion and perplexities incident to their arrival in the limited 
quarters of their new home ; and then it was with more of a 
sigh than a reproach that she expressed a melancholy con- 
viction in the brief words, “ But my orator will never pray.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MR. GRIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 

Of late, a transformation had taken place in Gridly. Not in 
his face, however. There were the same treacherous, merciless 
eyes which Flinteye had likened to those of a cat, and there 
was the old, tangled beard, with its lengthening pendulums 
often to be seen swinging beneath. At times, that peculiar, 
hissing laugh issued from his brazen lips, and he quoted as 
frequently as ever from his tutelary Jerry D. But he had 
thrown aside his shabby clothes, and attired himself in better 
fabrics, of more fashionable cut. His boots were polished. 
A shining silk hat rested on his head, and massive links of 
gold hung across his vest, symbolic of the chains in which 
his sordid soul was fettered. Thus far had he prospered. 


308 


.4 YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


He was possessed of wealth, and no longer encumbered by 
the abject creature whose very helplessness had only inspired 
him with growing hatred. He lived alone, in the lower half 
of a small cottage, the upper story of which he had let, not to 
increase his revenues, but to provide the dwelling with 
guardians in his absence ; for there were valuables in the 
iron safe that helped to furnish his bedroom. Gridly was 
not the man to entrust his property to the tender mercies of 
a bank. Other reasons there were, too, why his securities 
should be always within reach, and in a shape that could 
be quickly changed into cash. Perhaps a pi'otege of Jerry 
D., though prosperous, might sometime have need of sudden 
flight. Evidently, he was not yet through with the Babbons, for 
he kept sharp watch on their movements. And now, behold 
him on his way to their residence, one evening, not long 
after their arrival in the city. He had dressed himself with 
care, and was, manifestly, intent upon some scheme of im- 
portance. On the route he talked to himself below his 
breath, and sometimes in an audible voice. 

“Yes,” he muttered, “I guess ’twill work. There’s a 
mighty power in cash ; and dollars are a great argument to a 
man that’s broke ; especially if said man has once been up 
in the world, and has got let down sudden. It’s the argu- 
ment he used to try when I was a down-pin, and I call it a 
good one ; I guess I’ll take my turn and try it on him. 
D — n it ! why should she say no, anyway ? I ain’t got much 
education, but I’ve got the dollars. Nor I don’t lay no claim 
to a spoony, milk-and-water face, but yet I’ve got the cash. 
Suppose I he ’twice as old ! I’d like to know what the 
d — 1 that’s got to do with it. All the better for her. If she 
behaves herself, she’ll have the whole pile in time, and if 
she’s got any common sense she’ll look at it that way. It 
ain’t to be counted on, though. Most of ’em don’t own a 
grain of sense. But here’s the nub of the business ; it don’t 
make no difference what she says, if the old man’s fixed right. 
Old Jerry and me can manage the rest. If she’s a high- 
strung piece, all the better. I guess I’m tol-lol able to tame 
her.” 

Having applauded this sentiment with a diabolical hiss, he 
continued, — 

“ I’ve got the old man down to a fine point at last, and 


MR. GRIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


3’09 


the chink of hard dollars will sound like, new music. I’m 
bound to have her, and I’ll go a high figure.” 

This much said Gridly, and more of the same purport, 
chuckling also, as he went, over the success of past and the 
prospects of present villauy, until he knocked at Mr. Bab- 
bon’s door. It was opened by Mrs. Babbon. 

How d’ye do, marm? ” said Gridly. 

“ I vum to Heaven ! ” cried the astonished woman. “ It 
is the canker-worm ! ’ ’ 

“Thank you, marm; don’t care if Ido drop in, a min- 
ute,” replied Gridly, walking in without more ado. At the 
first sound of his voice, Mr. Babbon had sprung from his 
chair, with a fierce, vindictive flash of the eye, as though he 
would wipe out his long score with one blow. 

“ Babbon, how do you do,” said Gridl}^ advancing with 
extended hand. “ How does the world use you? Same to 
you, young lady. Hope I see you well.” 

Mr. Babbon folded his arms and Gridly quailed, a mo- 
ment, under his gaze, as he replied in a deep, menacing 
tone : — 

“ No ! My hand is not for the touch of a scoundrel.” 

“ Well.,'' sneered Gridly, “ here’s a neighborly way of 
receiving a guest. I’ll swear ! Madam, there, calls me a 
worm, and my old friend, here, calls me a scoundrel; — 
very rough names for a guest, both of ’em. But, marm, 
your humble orator begs leave to allege that he is not, at 
present, a worm. He has come out of his cocoon, on gold 
wings. Time was when he played the worm, but he’s give 
that up. He’d be a fool to crawl, when he’s got gold wings 
to soar with. And your aforesaid humble orator further 
alleges and deposes, that he is not a scoundrel. And further 
does your aforesaid humble orator allege and depose, that 
he has come here on business. For a certain consideration, 
hereafter to be specified, said humble orator proposes, offers, 
and intends, to make over, grant, and convey, certain sums, 
amounts, moneys, funds, securities, properties, valuables, 
possessions, etc., etc. Babbon, upon my word. I’m dev’lish 
sorry to see the world using you so rough. Now, what do 
you say to a proposition for a little motter of several thou- 
sand, more or less? No humbug about it. A plain, straight- 
out thing. No law about it either, you know.” 


310 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Is it possible,” said Mr. Babbon, “ you want tO return 
any of the money you’ve swindled me out of? Gridly, I 
know you better ; I can’t believe it. I don’t know what 
should bring you to the house of a man you’ve robbed and 
ruined, as you have me.” 

“ ‘ Swindled’ is a hard word,” returned Gridly. “ Luck is 
luck, says Jerry D., and law is law. But that word is 
actionable ; and you know you couldn’t stand another heat 
just now. I don’t want to be hard on yon, but I’m d — d if I 
like that word ‘ swindled.’ But set down, Babbon, set down, 
and we’ll talk it over.” 

With that he deposited himself in a chair. The time had 
been when Mr. Babbon would have pitched Gridly headlong 
down-stairs for half the provocation to which he now tamely 
submitted. But he was no longer the proud, self-reliant 
man who once had pledged himself to make Carman, Spel- 
ter, & Co. walk up and plank down the cash. Completely 
cowed by Griclly’s overbearing insolence, he sat down and 
waited for him to speak. But not thus Mrs. Babbon. Her 
young plants of Christian kindliness, and the tender stalks 
that had sprung from her late-sown seeds of forbearance, 
began to wither as under a sirocco. She fixed her eyes upon 
their visitor in her most quenching manner, while she in- 
quired, in a freezing voice, — 

“ Mr. Gridly, do you deem yourself welcome here? ” 

But Gridly, not at all quenched, and entirely uncongealed, 
briskly replied, “No, marm.” 

Evidently, he wasted no time in attempting to make a 
favorable impression on his intended mother-in-law. Proba- 
bly he thought such endeavor vain. But it is certain that he 
believed the head of the house to have supreme authority in 
such enterprises as that which he was now prosecuting, and 
that he had firm reliance upon the weighty influence of his 
purse. The worthy lady was dumbfounded at his bald 
impudence, as well as shocked at his profanity. But, quick- 
ly recovering, she demanded why, under the eternal heavens, 
he came to mock at the havoc he had wrought. 

“ Why, d — nit!” muttered Gridly, to himsdf, “I guess 
you ain’t been trained. Looks like the old man gives you 
too much slack rope.” He then replied, — 

“ I’m sorry, marm, you think so hard of me. But the 


MR. GRIMLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


311 


motter stands just this way. I’ve come on business. I ain’t 
here to talk with the ladies — not with you, marm, nor with 
the pretty young miss. I want to speak to the old man, 
when I get a chance, and I’m going to talk dollars. I’ve got 
’em — stacks of ’em — and some to give away.” 

A stinging retort was on Mrs. Babbon’s tongue, sharp 
enough to penetrate even the pachydermatous Gridly, but 
she checked herself, showing plainly, by countenance and 
manner, that she had already stooped too low in deigning to 
exchange a single word with so abominable a creature. 
“Come, Phoebe,” she said, “I presume Mr. Babbon 
wishes to converse with his friend.’^ 

Thereupon she took herself and her adopted daughter out 
of the room, shaking the dust from her feet. Gridly’s 
eyes followed Phoebe with the look of a hungry wild beast. 
Then, leaning upon the table, and fastening his gaze upon 
the haggard face opposite, he said, — 

“ Babbon, in plain English, I’m a man of business and a 
man of dollars. I’ve got a proposition and, if you chime in, 
I’ve got the cash to back it up. Now, without any beating 
round the bush, I want a wife, and my aforesaid proposition 
is, you help me find the article. Do you take?” 

“ I thought you had a wife,” said Mr. Babbon. “ Have 
you made away with her yet ? ” 

Cfridly felt a sudden spasm, as if a lump of ice had been 
dropped upon his heart, instantly chilling the blood all 
through his veins. But he was practiced in concealing his 
emotions. 

“ Well, yes,” he assented, “ I did have one, but she took 
the heart-disease and pegged out. You never would be- 
lieve what a tough old girl that Snib wns. But, never mind ; 
she is counted out now. The question is, where am I to get 
another? I’m willing to bid up to tol-lol high for a party to 
suit.” 

Mr. Babbon eyed the speaker expectantly, not in the least 
suspecting whom he had in mind, but anticipating the reve- 
lation of some villanous scheme. 

“Come, now,” continued Gridly, “don’t try on Old 
Jerry’s tactics with me, because, you know, I can discount 
you every time ! Don’t say you can’t find the party ! ” 

“ I know nothing of all this,” returned Mr. Babbon, 


312 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


rising in a state of excitement ; “ and I tell you what, Grid- 
ly, poor as I am, I feel degraded by your presence. I am 
sick and broken down, or you’d felt the weight of my hand 
before this.” 

The transitory reflection of his former self that prompted 
these words died away, at the consciousness of his present 
weakness, and Mr. Babbon began pacing the floor in more 
or less trepidation, while Gridly leaned back, with his 
thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and dilated his mouth 
vilely. Several times the latter essayed to speak before he 
succeeded in articulating, — 

“That’s good, old man,” and then relapsed into another 
convulsion of hissing. For an instant his wretched victim 
looked as though he could brain him on the spot. 

“ After all,” resumed Gridly, shaking off the paroxysm, 
“ the almighty dollar is the trump in the game of life. The 
man that’s got the cash holds the game in his own hands. 
Take your own case. As long as you held the trumps, you 
carried your head high. When other folks talked softly, you 
talked loud ; and people were careful how they contradicted 
you. The riffraff and rabble made your politics their text 
to swear by ; and the only wonder is they didn’t run you for 
Congress. When you went to church, they took you to a 
first-class seat, and treated you like a Royal- Arch Christian 
of the Scottish rite, and the ninty-ninth degree. Them 
church mongrels keep a mighty sharp scent on the trail of 
the lucre. It’s the shekels, you see, that keep their machine 
going, and they knew brother Babbon was well fixed. When 
you walked the streets, men' took off their hats to you, and 
if you stepped into a car, they got up to give you a seat. 
You see, old boy, they all knew you held the trumps. But 
how is it now, when your cards are played out? Why, now 
it’s you that talks softly, when other folks talk loud, and 
everybody contradicts you. The riffraff* and rabble think 
they know a dev’lish sight more about* politics than you. 
They call you old Fogy, now, and, as for Congress, you 
couldn’t even get the place of a street-sweeper. It isn’t 
likely you ever go to church, nowadays. But, if you did, 
you’d find, d — d quick, it wasn’t no place for a poor sin- 
ner. Them Royal-Arch Christians would shake you like a 
louse. The men that once took off their hats to you, now 


MR. GRIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


313 


elbow you on the street, and, if you ever go in a car, they 
stand on your toes. Everybody says you’re played out, and 
so you are. Well, here comes Mr. Gridly and offers you 
one more deal. You hold the right bower, and stake nothing 
against seven thousand good, sound, hard dollars, cash down. 
What do you say to that, old boy? Do you take? ” 

“No,” replied Mr. Babbon, “1 don’t understand.” 
“Why, d — n it, man!” cried Gridly, “you understand 
dollars, don’t you? And you know how much seven thou- 
sand is, don’t you? Well, put them two facts together, and 
what’s the footing out? Seven thousand good, solid dollars, I 
make it ; and a dev’lish sound argument, too, I call it, to a 
man that’s dead broke. Now, there ain’t no use in beating 
round the bush. I don’t come here on the score o’ friend- 
ship, ’cause all that gammon is tol-lol well played out 
betwixt me and you. I’m here in a business way, — because 
1 see a place where our interests may chime in together; 
and, if said interests do chime in, as aforesaid, why, it’s 
seven thousand pretty dollars in your pocket. That’s a 
stake, Babby, my boy, that will set you on your horse once 
more, fair and square.” 

Not yet did Mr. Babbon perceive the drift of Gridly ’s 
iMiguage, though persuaded that he wanted his help in some 
fresh scheme. His pale face flushed, a little, at the idea of 
seven thousand dollars. It would keep his family above 
want, and, with skilful management, might in time restore 
him to his former position. Seeing the color kindle in his 
cheeks, Gridly continued, — 

“ Seven thousand dollars, cash down, in solid money, is 
an argument hard to beat. But what’s the good of fingering- 
round the subject? In plain English, I propose to make that 
young miss of yours my wife.” 

Mr. Babbon started, as at a sudden blow, and searched 
suspiciously in Gridly’s eyes. Something of the old 
determined spirit settled on his hard, gaunt face, and, in a 
voice full of meaning, he cried, — 

“ Gridly, take care ! Should you do that child a harm, so 
help me God, I’ll lay you low I ” 

“ Hold on I ” exclaimed Gridly. “ Don’t pick up a man 
before he falls ! That isn’t the dodge, at all. What I’m 
after is fair, square, and above board. I’m going to take 


314 


A roujsro disciple. 


the aforesaid young miss to a priest, and make her my lawful 
wife, fast and sure ; and then I’m going to pay you that said 
seven thousand dollars.” 

As he concluded, Gridly fancied that he detected an eager 
look about the other’s countenance, and faint signs of waver- 
ing. 

“ Seven thousand handsome dollars,” he repeated, casting 
his bait in a more alluring form. 

‘ ‘ Why come to me ? ” demanded the other. ‘ ‘ Why don’t 
you ask the girl herself how she would like to mate with a 
blackguard? No, no, Gridly. There’s something unexplained 
about this. I know you too well, for a cold-blooded, black- 
hearted villain. You are hatching some devilish crime 
against that girl, and I say to you, stop ! Isn't it enough, 
for God’s sake, that you’ve ruined me?” 

As Mr. Babbon concluded, he seemed like one on the verge 
of frenzy. Snatching a knife from the table, he slid one 
thumb along its edge, with a look that made his visitor leap 
from his chair, and, in tones that quavered with menace, he 
cried, — 

“ Gridly, if you try that., God help you!"" 

Gridly clutched the back of his chair to provide a weapon 
of defence. 

“ Look here, Mr. Babbon ! ” he exclaimed, “ that sort of 
thing won’t do. It’s actionable, by G — . Do you want another 
heat? Old man, you’ve got but cursed few more holes to go. 
One more lawsuit would peg you out.” 

Mr. Babbon dropped into his seat and, covering his face 
with his hands, bitterly groaned, — 

“ Nothing but death can shake off this vampire.” 

Base natures commonly exult in the misfortunes of their 
betters, and Gridly derived pleasure from his victim’s dis- 
tress. His method of pursuing his present object was not 
more the result of native brutality than of design. By his 
browbeating, he intended to make the other feel his Own 
helplessness and at the same time display the power of 
money. In his way, he was making the bait as tempting as 
possible. He feasted his eyes on the signs of poverty, 
feebleness, and despair. 

“ It’s tol-lol clear,” he muttered, “ who’s come out long- 
tailed rat, and who small-tailed mouse.” 


MR. ORIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


315 


Reseating himself, he said, — 

“ Them’s very scaly names you call me, old boy. But I 
ain’t one of your thin-skinned ones, so I won’t dispute ’em. 
Now, here’s the nub. Said Vampire, party of the first part, 
having sucked himself full and sucked you dry, party of the 
second part, it’s evident he don’t want to suck any more ; 
and it’s just as clear, if he did, he’d find cursed poor sucking 
round here. But the nub is, he don’t want to. He’s over- 
full and wants to disgorge. Come, now, be reasonable, and 
we’ll look into the merits of the case. I want a wife ; that’s 
flat. Young miss in there is the girl for me ; that’s flat. too. 
You don’t believe me, and I call that sharp. In general, 1 
don’t think I’m just the party to swear by^ and your experi- 
ence don’t lead you to take much stock in what I say. You 
think I’m setting up some snibbing job on that girl, and, 
when I’ve played my points. I’ll tell her to go to grass. But 
there you are mistaken. I don’t blame you, though, for I’m 
ready to testify I’m an uncertain kind of man ; also, that that 
sort of dodge is just my style. But I don’t ask you to trust 
me, nor I don’t expect it. All I ask you to believe is your 
own eyes, and the hard dollars, down on the nail. Now, 
about that question, why I don’t ask the girl, and why I 
come to you, my answer is ready to file. 1 don’t consider it 
none of her d — d business, and I do consider it yours. I 
ain’t much on the sentimental, nor I don’t take no stock in 
tlie bosh and gammon of love. That sort of thing is played 
out with me. But there’s one thing I believe in, — good, 
round, solid dollars. There you have the creed of Peter 
Gridly, alleged vampire and party of the first part. No, I 
don’t call it none of her business. You’re the party to pick 
out her husband. She’s your property, and the question is, how 
much will she bring. Come, I won’t ask you to believe me, 
but I’ll let you handle the proof, and I guess you’ll find it 
tol-lol heavy. No trick about it, and nothing underhanded, — 
all fair and'square. When I have my young miss before the 
priest, then, my boy. I’ll pay you your seven thousand good, 
current, solid dollars.” 

Gridly wrung out his beard and watched the flush of ex- 
citement on the other’s cheek. 

‘‘Then, you see,” he added, with a hideous smile, and a 
tone of horrible blandishment, “/’Z/ he your son-in-law., and 


316 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


that fund will be all in the family. See? And then, another 
thing, — something to boot. I’ll agree to hand over one 
more cool thousand just so soon as I see another Peter Grid- 
ly. Vampire junior, and party of the third part.” 

“ God knows I need money,” said Mr. Babbon, “ but I’ll 
never blacken my soul with that deed.” 

Gridly threw back his head and hissed himself livid, while 
the other looked at him as if he longed to strike the knife 
through his throat. Recovering from his spasmodic laughter, 
with an appreciative twinkle of his little, gray-green eyes, 
he said, — 

“That’s good, — Ws Jlrst-rate. But ’twon’t do. Seven 
thousand is more’n she’s worth, and you’d better wait till 
some other party bids up to them figures before you expect 
me to raise ’em.” 

“ Even if I would,” said Mr. Babbon, “ how could I make 
her love you? I have no control over her affections.” 

“ Oh, h — 1 ! ” cried Gridly, in deep disgust. “ Love and 
affection be d— d ! I tell you them two articles are counted 
out, — played out and done with. Don’t talk like a cursed 
fool, man, nor don’t take me for an ass, neither ! Dollars 
is the question ; not humbug and gammon. That aforesaid 
young miss is your ward.' She ain’t got no home of her own, 
nor no lien, claim, right, or title to 3"ours. She gets her 
bread and butter of you, and, according to my notion, ^^ou’re 
the one to say what man she shall marry. Her name is 
Phoebe, I believe. Well, my way of doing the business 
would be about this. I should say, ‘ Phoebe, it’s time 3'ou 
was married. I’m growing old and weak, and, in the natural 
course of things, I’d have to peg out before man}" years, 
an3’how ; but, what with bad luck and other troubles, it’s 
likely I’ll have to go before my time. I haven’t got a dollar 
to leave you, for I don’t hardl}" know where we’re going to 
get our grub, from one da}" to another. So, I’ve been look- 
ing round for a husband to take care of you, after I’m gone, 
and I’ve found a good one. Mr. Gridl}" is the gentleman. 
He will make 3"ou a good, kind, loving husband. He’ll 
always let you do exactly what 3"Ou please, and he’s a man 
that’ll never speak a cross word, and he’s got a heart big 
enough for three men, and he’s more than generous with his 
money. Besides, he’s dead gone on you ; loves you, — what 


MR. GRIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


317 


do they call it ? — desperately. Oh, yes, very, very desper- 
ately.’ Now, 3'ou couldn’t vouch for all that, of course. In 
fact, 3’ou’re thinking said husband would be just exactly the 
opposite. But anybody can afford to talk a thing up for a 
seven-thousand-dollar stake. In case she seemed balky, as 
perhaps she might if 3’ou haven’t trained her well, I wouldn’t 
come out rough on her at first, but I’d ring in something 
about the money. You ma3^ talk about love and affection, 
and all that nonsense, but I notice the girls look well to the 
collateral. You can chance it, for that sort of bosh, but 
give them the currenc3" ! It’s where their heads are level, 
too. So, I would say, ‘ Mr. Gridly is a mone3'ed man. 
When 3^ou are married to him you’ll have a splendid house, 
and a stylish carriage, and fine dresses by the load, — every- 
thing, in fact, to make you a lady. That is, if 3^011 behave 
yourself, you will. You cango to balls, parties, and theayters, 
every night of your life, and 3^011 needn’t ever get out of bed 
till noon. If 3^011 want to, 3’ou can keep your hair screwed 
up in curl-papers, and go round the house looking like a 
witch all the rest of the day. And Mr. Gridly wdll let lots 
of nice gentlemen come to spend the afternoon with you, or 
to take you out, when he ain’t to home. I’ve heard him say 
he knows ever so man3' good husbands, and that’s the way 
they all do. He knows what a good husband is, as well as 
anybody. He’ll let you keep a thoroughbred pug, and go to 
a high-fiavored church, if 3"ou w ant to. He’s coming to-mor- 
row to ask you to set the day, and I think you hadn’t better 
put it off long.’ That would be about my style, old boy, 
but I ain’t particular how you manage, so you make it all 
right.” 

As Mr. Babbon called to mind the time when Phoebe gave 
him her little inheritance to keep Dan at college, his eyes 
grew moist. But Gridly, observing his emotion, uttered a 
scornful hiss. 

“ That’s dev’lish well done,” he said, as if praising some 
difficult performance, “ but what’s the good of it? If I was 
a stranger, or if other people were round, it would be just 
the thing to squeeze out a little eye-water, aud play the 
affectionate guardian, and all that. But I read you tol-lol 
plain, you know, so where’s the good? Now listen! You 
called that a big haul, didn’t you, out of Carman, Spelter, 


318 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


& Co.? Well, it wasn’t a marker to the next turn I’ll give 
’em. They’ve got to be milked once more. My pipes are 
all laid and the wires ready to pull. Quarter of a million 
this time, sure, or up goes their concern. But the nub of 
that motter is, I want my old partner and future father-in- 
law to take a hand in the game, and to stand in with me on 
the profits. Now don’t your mouth water? Come, say the 
word ! You ain’t the fool to throw away seven thousand 
good, solid dollars, all in a cash lump, besides an even 
chance at a quarter million? You can’t afford to do it ; it’s 
your last game. But look here ! If you’re finessing for 
another bid, you might as well drop it, for I won’t go one 
cent higher. When you find somebody to see me that, will 
be time enough to go a hundred better.” 

“ It would be a shameful thing,” muttered Mr. Babbon, 
apparently yielding so far as to consider the matter. 

“I call that the talk of a jackass,” retorted Gridl}^ 
“ Shameful be d — d ! Suppose it is ! I’ve seen the time 
I’d do a good deal more for ten dollars. But that’s neither 
here nor there. It strikes me it’s a motter of necessity with 
you. You’ve got to do it, or out you peg.” 

“ Very well,” replied the other, “ be it so. I’ve drank the 
dregs of misery at your hands, and what remains. I’ll drink 
that, too, before I sell that girl to you. Rather than see 
her in your power, I’d put her in the grave. Now take 
warning ! Slop your plots against me and mine, or I’ll end 
them myself ! Come, I’ve heard enough ! ” 

Gridly could scarcely believe his ears. Thoroughly con- 
versant with the basest motives of the human heart, believ- 
ing all as unscrupulous as himself, and knowing well the 
straits to which he had reduced Mr. Babbon, he had antici- 
pated little difficulty in driving his bargain. Especially 
that last glittering offer — of a chance at a quarter of a mil- 
lion — he had supposed irresistible. 

“ AVhy, d — n it, man,” he cried, leaning far over the 
table, with a piercing look into the other’s eyes, as though he 
would reach the very fountain of his thoughts, ‘‘ why, what 
the d— 1 do you mean? That you’ll chuck away seven 
thousand dollars, cash down in your hand? Do you want 
one more heat with me, Peter Gridly, vampire, and party of 
the first and last part? Do you mean to give up your deal. 


MR. ORIDLY AIMS AT WEDLOCK. 


319 


and throw away your game.? — and do you want starvation to 
come and peg out your whole caboodle ? You’re a sly old 
sinner, and a good one at a bargain. But you musn’t raise me 
too high, or off 1 go and leave you in the lurch, your property 
on your hands and no one to bid. Come, be reasonable, and 
don’t drain me. I’ll stake 3^ou with another thousand the 
minute the knot is tied.” 

“We’ve had enough of this,” the other fiercely answered. 
“ It’s useless, I say. Don’t think me scamp enough to con- 
nive at your crimes ! Marry that innocent girl to an old, 
vile dog ! No, scoundrel, not to save her life or mine ! I’ve 
known you for a liar, a swindler, and a robber, — everything 
except a murderer.” 

Gridly trembled at the word, and his face grew pale, 
bringing out unclean streaks thereon, except where hidden 
by his beard. That last word rang in his ears, and reverber- 
ated through his brain, shaking his very heart. 

“ Rough names ! ” he stammered. “ Actionable, too, b^^ 
G — . D — n 3^ou ! One more lawsuit, and you know where 
you'll be.” 

The other’s excitement was rapidly culminating. He no- 
ticed neither Gridly ’s paleness, nor the involuntary look of 
guilty fear he threw around. 

“ See here, Gridly ! ” he cried, “ I’ll take no more threats 
from you. You’ve tangled me in your snares, and followed, 
like a bloodhound on my track, till you’ve pulled me down.” 

“ Nine thousand, Mr. Babbon,” cried Gridly. “ Niue 
thousand, and close the bargain.” 

“ Not for a million,” returned the other. 

“Well, then,” cried Gridly, hoarse with fury, “d — n 
3^011 ! I’ll sweeten you. I’ll have you up once more, in 
. court, and put the screws down to the last turn. We’ll find 
out what it’s worth to be called swindler and robber.” 

The old man was beside himself. The same frenzy that 
had seized him before made him again clutch the knife. 
Faster and faster up through its throbbing channels surged 
the hot blood, congesting his sick brain, overwhelming his 
judgment, and distorting bis grim, gaunt face with a deadly 
inipulse. For that moment, Gridly’s victim was no more 
responsible than a maniac. He advanced, and in his hand 
the knife, breast high, moved viciously forth and back, as 


320 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


though seeking some sure path, or gathering momentum for 
a fatal stroke. Again Gridly leaped up and grasped his 
chair, as if he would swing it through the air. 

“ Why do you come here? ” the other fiercely demanded. 
“ To triumph in my ruin? I’ll have no more of it. Be off! 
Away ! Away I ’ ’ 

Gridly was terrified, but alert. He backed to the door, 
holding the chair like a bulwark in front of him, and followed 
step by step by the old man with his eager knife. But he 
stopped a moment on the threshold. 

“One more word to you, old fool,” clanked his iron 
tongue, “ from Peter Gridly, vampire, and party of the first 
and last part. The bird that can sing, and won’t, must be 
made to sing, says Jerry D.” 

With that? he hurled the chair upon his assailant, and was 
gone. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

MR. FLINTEYE’S FINANCIAL CARD. 

While Gridly was retreating from Mr. Babbon’s, baffled 
and disappointed, but alread}" intent upon the details of a 
new plot, Mr. Flinteye sat with his apprentice in the back 
room of the Clover-Leaf. Two liquid compounds were mull- 
ing on the table, and this process the Old Bummer watched 
with a critical eye, fanning away with his hand the clouds of 
smoke that rolled from mouth and pipe. 

“How’s this?” inquired the Brand, closing one eye and 
opening it again, with spasmodic celerity. “Be I on the 
improve?” 

“Don’t you be conceited!” returned the other. “It’s * 
learned only by long practice, and the Old Gentleman has 
knowed many a able man slip up on it. I believe I never 
told you, but that there blink is imported, — imported by a 
sailorman from the Congo country. That’s where I got it, 
— from that sailorman. He said he first fell in with it on 
the king o’ the Mokes.” 

“ Taffy an’ gum ! ” cried the Brand. “You said his eye- 
lids wos like two hams. Now, if they wos, he couldn’t uv 


MR. FLINT EYE’S FINANCIAL CARD. 


321 


come in so swift. Them hams would bunged his cheeks to 
jell^^, or else wore ’em all off.” 

“ Let me give you a small piece of advice,” replied Flint- 
eye. “Don’t set up your little, feeble opinion against a 
sailorman as has traversed the high seas ! How do you 
know but he wore two steel plates on his face? Mind yon, 
f don’t say he did ! How do 3"ou know but he had his eye- 
lids padded ? Mind you, I don’t sa^" he did have ’em pad- 
ded ! All I say is, I never had the conceit to flare up my 
opinion contrary to a sailorman ; — not on any Congo ques- 
tion, I didn’t. Just 3'oii bear in mind them black heathens 
are a people we don’t know much about ! ” 

“ I’ve heard of ’em, when I wos 3’ouug,” said the Brand. 
“In the Sabber-school. We used to chip in pennies for 
’em, — all but me. I never had none. That there country- 
bution-box used to come round werv reg’lar. ’Twos to get 
Bibles, tracks, hymn-books, an’ such like ga3’' things, for ’em, 
we wos told. Sometimes I thought I’d set up for a mission- 
ary my own self. I’d like to have folks shell out for me 
that way. Besides, I just w^anted them heathens to see wot 
luck I had got out o’ them things.” 

“ Now, you ain’t going to drag me out into the missionary 
department,” returned Flinte3"e ; “not to-night, 3^011 ain’t. 
What I was saying was this. Before ever I see that sailor- 
man, I had a great e3'e for a blink. But, for all that, it 
took months to master that African one. Now, don’t lead 
out again, but hop up and batten down the hatches ! ” 

The Brand immediately closed the shutters and locked the 
door, while his master brought a glass jar from the cellar and 
placed it on the table. This jar contained a human stomach, 
preserved in an antiseptic solution, and was sealed wdth wax, 
wherein was written a signature. 

“ Now then,” said Flinteye, “ you may imagine yourself 
in court. I’m judge, you’re witness, — I shall stagger 3^011, 
if I can. Now, Mr. Witness, what do you see afore you?” 

“ Wol,” answered the Brand, “ I sees warious things. A 
glass jug, an’ two nips wot ought to be nailed, an’ the Old 
Gen’leman coming the saw-mill game.” 

“So far, very well,” returned Flinteye. “The Court 
decrees them nips be nailed. Ergo.^ nailed they be.” 

Thereupon the judge emptied one, while the Brand swal- 
lowed the other more slowly. 


322 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Do Mr. Witness see any other thing?” inquired the 
latter, as he replaced his glass on the table, in a fit of cough- 
ing and strangling. “ I bet he do. Wot be they? Stars ! 
Stars ! ” 

“Have a care!” said the judge. “You’re verging to- 
’ards contempt of court. Now, what do you notice in that 
there jug ? ” 

“ Stummik ! ” barked the Brand. 

‘ ‘ Whose ? ” pursued Mr. Flinteye. 

The Brand reflected, and answered, “ I think it belongs to 
doubs.” 

“ What you tUink^^ returned the other, “ don’t make one 
particle of difference. It’s what you knoiv.^ this Court is fish- 
ing for.” 

“Ketch the answer, then!” exclaimed the Brand. “It 
belongs to the firm o’ the nighthawks.” 

“Good!” ejaculated Mr. Flinteye. “For so young a 
bird, I call that no bad effort to throw the Court off the track. 
But the Court isn’t to be thro wed off ; she follies up the query, 
thus : what party first owned that there stomach, and owned 
it all along, up to the time it fell into the claws of the night- 
hawks? Now answer, and block the Court off, if you 
can ! ’ ’ 

“ ’Twos a little piece o’ property wot the Court couldn’t 
fetch,” vociferated the Brand. 

“ Careful, Bubber, go very careful! ” exclaimed the Old 
Bummer. “ You’re trenching dreadful close onto contempt. 
The Old Gentleman has told you, long ago, he was already 
mortyufied enough about that let-down, and he won’t have it 
flung up at him.” 

“ That is, he couldn’t, first off,” explained the Brand. 
“ Not with his figger, he couldn’t. But he fetched her, at 
last, with his spade.” 

“Very well,” remarked Flinteye. “Now, if you’ve 
worked that pin into the Court about as far as it will go, 
we’ll get back to our main case. Who was she? ” 

“ He called her the Snib,” answered the other ; “an’ ’twos 
a nobby name.” 

“ Never you mind what he called her! ” cried the judge. 

‘ ‘ The he question is not reached yet. Still pipes the query, 
who was she ? ” 


MR. FLINTEYE'S FlNAiVCIAL CARD. 


32a 


“ She wos wife to a man with a wery bad lantern,” was the 
ready answer. 

“ We’re warming to it,” observed the judge. “ What is 
that man’s name ? ” 

“ His name is Gridly.” 

“ Can you swear to it, Mr. Witness?” 

“Yes, by Dam ! ” swore the Brand. 

“ Look here, Bubber ! ” said Mr. Fliuteye, “ you can make 
up your mind to saw off that small branch, right here and 
now, — for good and all. I didn’t mean that kind of swear- 
ing, and you know it. Profanity is a weed what don’t 
flourish round the neighborhood o’ Mr. Fliuteye, — neither in 
his character of Court, nor on his ordinary racket of Old 
Gentleman. If it’s beginning to sprout inside, I advise you 
to tear it up by the roots. Otherways, I shall have it to do 
m3’self.” 

Mr. Fliuteye kept silent a moment, to give weight to his 
reprimand, and then resumed, “ The Court is now setting 
again.” 

I bet she’ll hatch out something gay.” declared the 
Brand, “ afore she gets through.” 

“ There’s where you’re getting a little mixed,” returned 
Fliuteye ; a trifle rattled, methink, on your simyulee. It’s 
the counsel as does the hatching. The Court merrily stands 
in, on the divvy. But we’ve had enough branching. Mr. 
Witness, you will now tell the Court how you know that’s the 
thing you swear to, in that there jug. Mind you tell it 
straight — the Court will rattle you, if she can.” 

Will I begin down under the main root,” inquired the 
Brand, “ an’ dig along up? ” 

The judge nodded. 

“ All right,” said the Brand. “ They’s a splendid man, as 
runs a ranch called the Clower-Leaf, — the gayest old bum- 
mer out ; an’ wot’s more, he’s the best an’ kindest old gen’le- 
man 1 ever lit on, — about the only one as never used me 
bad. He don’t set up for a wery pious cove, nor he ain’t 
never been on the deacon lay ; but, for knowing when a little 
feller is wery near caved in, an’ for filling of him up with 
square wittles, he can’t be beat; A missionary couldn’t hold 
a candle to him.” 

“ Lay it on easy, Bubber ! ” interposed the judge. “ Prime 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


;)24 

it light, along there ! Methink your brush is dripping. Better 
spread it thin, if you expect it to stick, on Mr. ,Flinteye.” 

“ Here’s where it siicA:s,” declared the Brand, tapping at 
his bosom. “ Now, that old gen’leman’s got a ’prentice grow- 
ing up just like him, an’ I think them two is on the horridest 
lay ever heard of. They’re plant-diggers an’ nighthawks. 
Shall I keep on ? ” 

“ Yes, keep on ! ” said Flinteye ; “but bear in mind we 
don’t care nothing about what you think. Facts is what this 
Court is fishing for, and on them she’ll rattle j’ou, if she 
can.” 

“ All right,” said the Brand ; “let her try it ! One night 
them two went out on the dig. They knowed just where to 
strike in, ’cause one of ’em had seen ’em take her under 
by daylight. So, they put straight for the spot an’ h’isted 
out that plant. When the Court shined his lamp over her 
face, I seen ’twos Mr. Gridly’s Snib. I’d often seen her afore, 
wot they wos of her, an’ knovred her well. That wos why I 
felt sort o’ sorrowful an’ trembly, an’ expected a ghost 
would come flitting round ; or, if they wosu’t any, they’d 
ought to been one. But I played I didn’t much care, 
an’ we filled up the hole an’ turf ted it all over again. Then 
we bagged our plant and sculled for the Clower-Leaf, laying 
mighty low. The next night we run her in all right, to a 
docty’s college, an’ when we got there a man come down an’ 
bought her. Now, that wos a horrid cove. He W'Ore a black 
gownd down to his heels, with long, Injun-rubber gloves, an’ 
he wos fitted up with hooks, an’ pickers, an’ knives. The 
Old Gen’leman told him he’d throw off fibs from the price, if 
he’d let him have the stummik ; cos he said lie wanted to 
bottle it for to sell to another docty. So, he said he would. 
Then the}^ toted her up-stairs, an’ I went up too. We 
reached a room where plants wos laying round, thick as hops, 
an’ some of ’em looked like they wished they wos out o’ there 
the worst way. Other ones lay off an’ took it easy, like they 
didn’t care two pins whether school kep’ or not. Just as the 
song says, ‘ Their fingers wos long, like the cane in the 
brake, an’ they had no — ’ ” 

“Well, well!” interposed Flinteye, “don’t branch out! 
Stick to your evidence, and let the music slide.” 

“ Wol,” resumed the Brand, “ they wos a crowd of young 


MR. FLINT EVE'S FINANCIAL CARD. 


325 


docties vyaltzing round, with their gownds an’ Injun-rubber 
gloves, w) islliog, lalking, an’ laughing, and a good many 
a-striking their reg’lars, but all of ’em sending their pickers 
an’ things into them poor, gone-in plants as tight as they 
could send. But I expect the Old Gen’leman seen I wos 
turning ruther white, cos he asked would 1 like a nip. Wol, I 
struck one, an’ then the Old Gen’leman hit it hisself , an’ that 
wos the last of it. I might uv knowed it. Then they h’isted 
the Snib onto a table, an’ the cove wot bought her gave just 
three clips, an’ out rolled lier stummik like a bean out its 
pod. The Old Geu’leman fetched that jug o’ sperrits an’ the 
other feller put the stummik in it. That’s how ’twos done.” 

‘‘ Now, Mr. Witness,” said the judge, “ whp.t further did 
the young doctor do, if anything else he done?” 

“ He covered the stopper with red wax,” continued the 
Brand. “ An’ the Old Gen’leman asked him would he write 
his name in the wax. So, he took his picker, an’ writ his 
name. Then the Old Gen’leman put his lanterns on me, 
an’ come it like 1 never seen afore nor since. But I call 
ti’ dollars a big price lor that stummik. I’ve seen the time 
1 w'ouldn’t uv give ten cents for mine.” 

The Old Bummer was well pleased with the testimony. 
“Bubber,” said he, ‘'•you’re a credit to your trade, an’ to 
Mr. Flinteye. Methink I see your future looming higher; 
indeed 1 do. But how do you know it’s the same one? 
Prehaps somebody may have changed it since then, or put 
something else in that there jug. Run your eye over it, and 
tell the Court what you say to that.” 

“ You can’t rattle me,” cried the Brand. “There’s his 
name in the wax, just the way he left it. Nobody never 
opened it since he stopped it up.” 

“Well done,” Mr. Witness,” said Flinteye; and then, 
very impressively, he added: “now, do you bear all that 
in mind! Don’t forget one word! Say it over, nights, 
when you’ve gone to bed. Meanwhile, the court is adjourned. 
But, if you ever happen to meet that party with tlie surpris- 
ing bad eye, don’t let him pump you ; keep the mummest you 
know how ! ” 

“All right,” said the Brand. “ How kind o’ small an’ 
s’runk it looks ! — like it hadn’t had much into it, lately. Bnt 
I bet you I’ve seen the time mine wos s’runk up worse. I’d 


326 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


like to have a strap-an’ -buckle round the old saint wot kep’ 
mine so dry an’ empty. I’d brace one foot, take hold with 
both hands, an’ tighten it up to the last hole. He might sing 
out, but it wouldn’t be no use. I’d sag away, an’ tell him I 
knowed a little cove whose stummik he wos awluz pinching , 
an’ that little feller offen sung out, but ’twosn’t no use. All 
he ever made by it wos, he got warmed most terrible. Mr. 
Flinteye, wot be stummiks good for?” 

“They’re an organ with various uses,” replied Flinteye. 
“One item is to serve as a doorway to the brain. It’s by 
that route the stimulant travels.” 

“ But I mean arter they’re clipped out of you?” exclaimed 
the Brand. 

“ Chiefly be they useful,” replied the other, “ for upsetting 
people as go too far with tactics of Old Jerry.” 

“ I’ve tumbled to /wm,” cried the Brand. “ I’ve seen the 
time I wos called a child o’ his’n. P’r’aps if I had been, 
I’d had better luck. But I wish’t I knowed wot you wos up 
to, with your stummik an’ bones. Wot be you going to do 
with the Snib’s bones, Mr. Flinteye?” 

“ Now don’t you worry ! ” returned Mr. Flinteye. “ You 
bring here them bones ! ” 

The Brand proceeded to the cellar, and returned with a bag 
of human bones, which he emptied on the table. Taking up 
the skull, he inspected a brass ring fastened therein while he 
remarked, “ Now, a skuld is a sing’lar thing. Seems like it 
wanted to sing out, all the time, ‘ Look wot you've got to come 
to ! Look wot you've got to come to ! ’ If you rap it, it sounds 
dry an’ holler, an’ kind o’ solemn.” 

“ See here!” Mr. Flinteye peevishly exclaimed; “ do let 
up ! Keep your mouth shut and your eyes out, if you’d 
learn to j’ine the various parts of a skellit ! ” 

The bones had evidently been through a process of prepa- 
ration, for they were polished and drilled. With a coil of 
copper wire, Mr. Flinteye began to fasten together the dif- 
ferent pieces ; and, under his skilful manipulation, the 
promiscuous heap gradually assumed the outline of the human 
form. This' process the Brand watched with deep interest, 
but his mouth would not remain closed, despite the late in- 
junction of his superior. 

“When you’re once off the hooks,” he thoughtfully re- 


MR. FLINTEVE'S FmANCIAL CARD. 


327 


marked, “ it ain’t so bad to be took to pieces an’ j’inted 
together again, an’ have a ring in your skuld to hang yon up 
by. P’r’aps your nose will get full o’ dust, an’ Mr. Spider 
may come an’ set his web on the spot where your lanterns 
used to shine ; but wot of it? If it’s got to be either spider 
or worm, one of the two, anyway, I go in for the spider, 
don’t you ? He wears a gay eye for flies, an’ can’t be gummed. 
But a worm is a’ wery foolish animyle. All he knows is to 
stretch out an' s’rink up again. He don’t even know enough 
to stay in when it rains. You’ll offen see a robin on the 
grass — both feet braced, an’ his head up in the air — sagging 
back with all his might, on something like a little red string 
slanting down out his bill. If you didn’t know, you’d 
think he wos anchored there, an’ wos doing his best to get 
off. But he isn’t. , That there red string is a worm. One 
end is nabbed an’ the other’s in the ground ; he’s hanging on 
just by the tail. Wol, Mr. Robin slacks up, to get his breath, 
an’ then — ” 

Here Mr. Flinteye laid down a bone and folded his hands, 
while his eyes closed, and his head drooped, in a manner 
significant of great fatigue. 

“ I’ll quit,” cried the remorseful Brand. “ I’ll branch out 
onto something else. Say, Mr. Flinteye ; I bet that Snib 
wos a good woman.” 

“ I was very near gone^ on that robin business,” said the 
Old Bummer, rousing himself with apparent effort; “ but I 
think it will pass over. Now, why do you bet that Snib was 
a good woman ? ” 

“ Cos she had such mighty bad luck,” returned the Brand. 

“Yes, she did; she did so, poor thing,” assented the 
other. ‘ ‘ Of all living birds I do think she had the roughest 
for a husband. But she stuck by him. The more he buffed 
and rebuffed, p’obably the more she loved him.” 

“ Just like Purp,” cried the Brand. “He wos a tarrier- 
dog I once had ; though I never knowed him tarry long when 
anybody put their eye on him. He wos bench-legged an’ 
wery sewere. But the more I burnt him, the more he loved 
me. His full name wos Purple.” 

“ Thunderation ! ” cried the Old Bummer. “ First robins, 
then dogs. Anything more, Bubber? If there is, you’d 
better include ’em all and have done.” 


328 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


The Brand said nothing, but his face wore a penitent look. 

“ Do try and stick to your main ! ” resumed Mr. Flinteye. 
“ Don’t branch so reckless random ! You was saying that 
Snib was a good woman, you’d bet. Now drops the query, 
was it any benyufit to her ? Rebounds the answer, methink 
not much. Was she any better off for it? I should say 
not. Wouldn’t she had fewer buffings, and lasted longer, 
if she’d been a raging virago? Undoubtably she would so. 
Folly out the idea, Bubber, and let your little intellect run 
for’ard onto it ! ” 

“ That’s wot I be doing,” returned the Brand ; “ I’ve offen 
thought of it. Now look at me ! Once, they wosn’t a single 
feller ahead of me in learning Bible werses, an’ going to 
Sabber-school, an’ doing the piousest I knowed how. But, 
all that time I didn’t have no luck. I don’t know wot made 
me stick to it so long. Anyhow, I got wore out at it, an’ lay 
down in the mud to go off the hooks. But a old gen’leman 
picked me up an’ fetched me to the Glower- Leaf . He wanted 
me to go his ’prentice. Now, I knowed by his cut he wosn’t wot 
you could exactly call a wery Christian man ; but, thinks I, 
‘ little feller, you’d better chance it. If you quit trying to 
be good, an’ do your best to be a little bummer, p’r’aps- you’ll 
strike a streak o’ luck. Anyhow, it’s 3"our last hold ! ’ 8o, 

when he asked me wos it ’prentice or no, I sung out ‘ ’pren- 
tice.’ Then came good clo’es, good wittles, good home ; no 
more burning, an’ booting, an’ pinching of my stummik, but 
square meals an’ first-rate luck, right straight along. I don’t 
see how it is. One werse said Mr. Transgressor has a hard 
road to travel, but I’ve been on it some time, an’ I call it 
the gayest road I ever struck. It makes me b’lieve I wos 
gummed, right straight ahead, from the time I wosn’t bigger 
than a mouse till I landed in the old Glower-Leaf. Mr. 
Flinteye, do you b’lieve the Bible is all gum?” 

Hullo!” exclaimed Mr. Flinteye. Steering into the 
theological department ? I thought you was heading that 
way. But I suppose we might as well tackle it and get 
through. What do you mean by gumming? Bubber, what 
is gum?” 

“ Something as sticks in your teeth,” explained the Brand, 
— something wot don’t go down, 3^ou know.” 

“Well, then, we start from there,” said Mr. Flinteye. 


MR. FLINT EYE* 3 FINANCIAL CARD. 


329 


“ Undoubtably, many a thing is to be rooted up, in that there 
book, as trenches surprising nigh onto the gummy. Prehaps 
you may remember it teaches that everybody must keep one 
(lay in seven for Sunday, — fifty Sundays in the year. Now, 
I once knowed a sailorman as had been far to the north’ ard, 
on the whaling lay, and he told me — ” 

‘‘ Hold on ! ” cried the Brand. “ All I want to know is, 
whether ’twos the same one as told you about the king o’ the 
Mokes. That’s all I want to know.” 

“There’s one thing you’ll know pretty quick,” retorted the 
Old Bummer, — “just how many times more you can dip in, 
without being fetched up all-slanding. Now, that reliable 
sailorman told me he’d been where the sun shone six months 
steady, without ever setting, and kept dark six months 
steady, without ever rising. What follies? Why, clearly, 
there wosn’t but one day and one night in the whole year. 
Now, you see, surges up the query, how could them people 
up there keep Sunday, every week, when there wosn’t no 
week at all ? Let 3’our little thirsty intellect tussle with that 
query ; let her tussle ! But still it chimes, do the Old Gentle- 
man believe that book all gum ? Booms the answer, methink 
he don’t. Why not? Well, granting it contains many a 
gummy thing, and many a one as can’t be explained nor under- 
stood, yet, when you come to burrow into the weaknesses 
of the human brain, and look at it from that standpoint, 
you’ll begin to think them hard knots don’t constitute no 
very heavy pull-back to the gen’ral credyubility of the work.” 

“ Now you stagger me,” cried the Brand. “ It sounds like 
a sermon, an’ they awluz laid me out.” 

Apparently, the Old Bummer felt complimented. With 
increasing fervor he continued : “ For, we are surrounded by 
things just as hard to explain or understand. In fact, was 
I to hazard my opinion, I should say I very much doubt 
whether anybody, yet, ever understood anything. Looming 
up on every side and every day, we see things far gummier 
than any page in that book. Take a ease in p’int : run your 
eye over this skellet, and what do you see ? Merrily a con- 
glomyuration of bones.” 

“Abio you rattle me ! ” cried the Brand. “ I can’t tumble 
to you, nohow.” 

The other paid no heed but continued : “ But, suppose you 


.330 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


had run your eye over it a spell ago, what would you 
seen? A living Snib, out in full bloom ; rugged as a rag- 
picker, and both eyes out exceeding vigilant for a buff. Now, 
I ask you what makes the difference ; what change has come 
over that Snib? Prehaps you’ll say she’s reduced to a plant, 
and that’s what makes the difference. But I shall peg you to 
the wall with the query, what constitutes being reduced to a 
plant? You won’t answer. Then I shall take another crack 
at the peg with the query, what do it consist of? For, mind 
you, it was always Mr. Flinteye’s habit to set his pegs well 
in. Then, while you’re squirming. I’ll tap it again, thus : 
How do you explain it? Why, Bubber, you don’t explain 
it ; nor anybody else. The p’int is, we see the thing and 
know it is so ; but we don’t understand or explain it. Sim- 
yularly of many things. Hence, and therefore, it would be 
mere and sheer folly to say the book is weakened by any- 
thing in it what strikes your poor little feeble brain as 
gummy. Nail that down ! Branch second : The Old Gen- 
tleman has knowed a power of men, in his day, as leaned 
far over to the gummy side o’ that question^ and some of ’em 
he’s seen reduced to plants. Here’s what he noticed : When 
they found the death-angel calling for em, the arguments 
they’d always thought heavier than mill-stones turned lighter 
than feathers. Just afore their breath was shut off, it 
seemed like they could look for’ard, into the country they was 
bound for, and get a glimpse o’ something as upset all their 
calculations most dreadful sudding. Clinch that down ! 
Branch third : It strikes me, the Almighty wouldn’t set us 
down, in this here world where there’s so many crooked 
roads, without setting up a sign-post to p’int the way. Bub- 
bei’, you may screw it down, and bolt it there, that book is 
our sign-post.” 

“How about that bloody king?” inquired the Brand. 

• “ All he had for his post-holes wos black Mokes. Wh^^ didn’t 
he get no chance, as well as other people? ” 

“ Now, you can’t haul me out into the skeptic department,” 
returned Mr. Flinteye ; “ not to-night, you can’t. It’s easy 
enough to ask questions. But I’ve touched that ground, 
already, with my first branch.” 

“ Anyhow,” remarked the Brand, “lawluz thought Jonah 
sounded wery gummy, in that whaild.” 


MR. FLIXTEVE'S FINANCIAL CARD. 


331 


“You did, hey?” cried Flinteye. “Well, a sailorman 
ouce told me he’d seen the earth heave up fire, ashes, smoke, 
water, stones.” 

“ I wish’t I knowed,” returned the Brand, “ whether ’twos 
the one wot told about a Moke setting on his head. But, if 
the earth can heave up them things, a whaild ought to be 
able to womit Jonah. Do 3^011 bet ’twos reg’lars made him 
worait? How do you know but Jonah had struck his reg’lars 
just afore he wos gobbled down, an’ ’twos that made Mr. 
Whaild sick at his stummik. How quick he would womited 
if he’d got hold of the Old Gen’leman ! Three days ! Pho ! 
It wouldn’t been fi’ minutes afore he’d been going it like a 
pump. How near shore do you bet he could swim? Any- 
way, he must chucked up terrible hard to send him over onto 
dry land. I expect Jonah tasted wery bad.” 

“ I wish you’d give old Jonah a rest ! ” exclaimed Mr. Flint- 
eye. “ I should think he’d suffered enough ; and if he hasn’t 
I have.” 

With that, Mr. Flinte^m laid his completed work on the 
table. 

“ There now ! ” he continued; “there she is, as neat a 
specimen as ever I see. Run your eye over her, and pick 
out a flaw, if you can ! ” 

“ She looks like one in the primer ! ” cried the Brand, with 
all the enthusiasm of sudden discovery. “ They wos a little 
cove going like a arrow ; he wos just a-fiying. No wonder. 
A skellit wos jumping for him, with a hour-glass in one hand 
an’ a dart in the other. He wos trying to pick that little 
cove, behind, an’ ’twos easy to see he’d got a sure thing. 
Three more hops an’ he’d have him, just where he wanted 
him. Down below it said : — 

“ ‘ Youth for’ard slips ; 

Death soonest nips.’ 

That WOS all, but ’twos enough. I never forgot that picter. 
It seemed like the man wot drawed it must uv knowed about 
me an’ the old saint as wos awluz a-hunting of me. But I’ve 
offen thought, if I had been that little feller, I’d uv come the 
drop-game on him ; that’s wot I’d done.” 

“ It would suit me just as well,” said Mr. Flinteye, “ if 


332 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


you’d try it now, on that there subject, and drop the whole 
of that primer business. Run your eye over her, I say, and 
tell me if you can find a flaw in the j’inting ! ” 

“ I think she’s gay,” replied the Brand ; “ gayer than when 
she wos alive. She don’t look so sorrowful an’ wore out. 
iL's the only time I ever seen her laugh. But wot be you going 
to do with your stummik an’ bones ? ” 

“ In his character of boss in this here concern,” said Mr. 
Flinteye, “ the Old Gentleman sometimes extends the busi- 
ness on his own account. Such extension is that there skel- 
lit. Bikeways that companion-piece. They constitute the 
basis of a tremenduous financial game.” 

It’s a game I never knowed,” remarked the Brand. 
“Nevermind!” said Mr. Flinteye. “Wait till you see 
your Old Gentleman play his financial card. Then you’ll 
know.” 

“ Yes, but,” objected the Brand, “he might find out he 
didn’t know his card no better than he once knowed his bird. 
Don’t you remember he once thought he knowed his bird, an’ 
when he went to fetch her, he found he didn’t? You see, he 
might not have no better luck, playin’ his fynancial card than 
wot he had playin’ Of his Agger.” 

Mr. Flinteye turned a reproachful gaze upon his appren- 
tice. “ I don’t know,” said he, “ why you should cling so 
loving to that there little let-down. Is it any comfort to 
you to fling it up at your Old Gentleman? Do you want to 
sear his heart? Bubber ! look the Old Gentleman in the eye, 
and tell him if you want to sear his heart ! ” 

“ Don’t, Mr. Flinteye ! ” expostulated the contrite Brand. 
“ I didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, 3^011 know you 
fetched her with your spade, if you couldn’t with your Agger. 
But let’s go back to Jonah ; I wosn’t through with him, any- 
how. I bet you, if Jonah had only had some ca3mine pepper 
ill his pocket, he could more than warmed that whaild. 
M ustard wouldn’t been bad, neither. He’d had to open his 
mouth, to let the water in, an’ then Jonah could swam out. 
Do you b’lieve he could swim?” 

“ I wish he’d never been heard of again,” exclaimed Mr. 
Flinteye. “ Why can’t you let him alone? The main p’int 
in his history is, he was swallowed and hove up again. 
That’s all anybody cares about Jonah. Do let him rest at 
that 1 ” 


MR. GRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 333 


Thereupon Mr. Flinteye proceeded to drive into the ceiling 
of the bar-room a nail, to which he fastened a short cord, 
armed at its lower end with a hook. 

“ I know ! ” cried the Brand. ‘‘ It’s to hang her up by.” 

At this moment somebody tried the door and then knocked. 

“Open up, Bubber!” said Mr. Flinteye, as he disap- 
peared down the cellar stairs, with the skeleton and the jar. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MR. GRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 

“Hullo!” exclaimed the Brand, opening the door just 
wide enough to peer out ; “ want a reg’lar?” 

“ Come, shut your mouth and open the door!” answered 
a clanking tongue. The Brand complied, and admitted 
Gridly. 

“ Where’s the old man?” the latter demanded. 

“Oh ! he’s round,” returned the Brand. “ But, say, Mr. 
Gridly ! I awluz hankered arter lanterns like your’n. Can’t 
3'ou see with ’em in the dark, like Mr. Cat?” 

“ Come, now, will you shut up?” said Gridl}'. “ It strikes 
me you’ve got altogether too much gab, my small friend. 
Go call the old man !” 

“ All right,” replied the Brand ; “ but where you been to 
all this time, Mr. Gridly, — out on some tremenduous lay? 
The old Clower-Leaf has missed them lanterns.” 

Gridl^^ started to reply with a slap, but he restrained him- 
self and sat down by the table. 

“ Like the Old Gen’leman says,” continued the loquacious 
Brand; “now loddles up this here warious, question, he I 
Mr. Gridly’s small friend? Then the answer hops round, an’ 
plays its %ger, an’ does everything it can think of, an’ sings 
out, ‘ no, sir-ree ! you ain’t no such thing.’ I may be small^ 
but they’s a reason for it, — I wos stunted when I wos young. 
Mr. Gridly, if 3^ou’d been booted into the way- yon hadn’t 
ought to go, like I wos, I bet you would been stunted, your 
own self. Yes, I know I’m small ; but, be I jmur friend f 

Before the Brand could enlarge any further upon that 


334 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


topic, he was interrupted by Mr. Flinte^’e. That genial 
votary of Bacchus approached with exuberant welcome 
beaming from every feature, and shook his visitor most 
cordially by the hand, — an operation that he was able to 
perform very thoroughly, from the fact that his right arnv» 
was in full play. 

“Glad to see 3*011, Mr. Gridly ! ” he warmly exclaimed. 

“ You’ve been a stranger, of late. It’s like renewing a old 
acquaintance. How will you take it ; hot or cold?” 

“ Hot,” decided Gridly. 

“Nothing like it for interior chills,” declared Mr. Flint- 
e3"e ; “ likeways not, for fever on the nerves. Rubber, mix 
a pair of snifters, hot.” 

The Brand applied himself to his task with alacrity. 

“ How’ve 3*ou been, Mr. Gridly?” inquired Flinte3*e ; 

“ and your friend, the venyurable Jerr3’, how goes it with 
him ? ” 

“Oh! it’s always brisk with Jerry D.,” returned Gridly, 
with a ribald chuckle at the other’s simplicity ; “ but, as for 
m3’self, I’m only tol-lol. Yes, I have been a stranger. Flint- 
eye. Had to go West. Heavy business motters out there.” 

“Just so,” assented the simple Old Bummer,; “ went off 
suddenish, didn’t you?” 

“ Well, 3'es, tol-lol sudden. Had a fair offer for my Den, 
and thoi^ht I might as well sell out, and make a clean move.” 

“ Just so ; a stirring business man do, sometimes, have to 
make ver3" sudding changes. A lucky^ move, Mr. Gridly? 

1 notice you’re looking very trim and neat, and I hazard the 
opinion you’ve made a lucky move. Glad if 3*ou have.” 

“Well, 3’es,” admitted Gridly. “I don’t mind telling 
you. I’m in luck.” 

“ You ought to be, Mr. Gridly, 3*ou ought to be,” declared 
Flinte3*e. “ What with the deepness of your own nat’ral 
talents, and the advice of your old, bottomless friend, I say 
you ought to be so. See what it is to have a backer like the 
venyurable Jeriy ! How do your Zody stand it, — tough as 
ever?” 

“ Good luck there, too,” said Gridly ; “ d — d good.” 

“No! You don’t say so!” ejaculated the host. “You 
don’t mean you found a party as could captivate where Mr. 
Flinteye got floored ? ” 


MR. GRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 335 


Mr. Flinte3"e’s countenance displayed naked unbelief. 

“ Didn’t I, though ! ” bragged Qridl3^ “ One daj^ she was 
called for b\' a part^' who wouldn’t be put off, — a part}’ that 
was never yet floored. Where 3’ou lost, he won.” 

Well, there ! ” exclaimed Flinteye. “It knocks me on 
my beam eiuls ; I never would believed it. What was his 
tactics, Mr. Gridl3" ; was he a artificial 3mung bird?” 

“He’s a well-known part3’,” returned the other, “and in 
his ways, he’s generally considered dev’lish natural. Instead 
of being an artificial, young jackass, he’s one of the oldest 
parties known.” 

Gridly had assumed a bantering air, as if teasing a sim- 
pleton. 

“ Hear that, now ! ” exclaimed Flinteye, in a tone of deep 
vexation. “ What mortyufi cation to a man as has been used 
to ramp and tramp, at will, over bleeding hearts! What a 
quencher to his vanity, to be cut out 1)3’^ a old character of 
that stripe I I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it. I don’t think 
I could survived it. I should fled and went, from this earthlv 
ball, on the spot. Be you quite sure he was a strictly nat’ral 
bird? Be 3mu celling, and pos3'utive, he didn’t put on a few 
artificial touches for that there particular campaign ? It don’t 
seem no ways likely a out-and-out nat’ral bird could fetched 
lier so sudding, after Mr. Flinteye had tried his best, only 
to get upset and floored.” 

A keen glance of suspicion shot from under Gridly’s brows, 
as though he detected some hidden meaning. But the Old 
Bummer’s left eye essayed to come it with an air of super- 
human shrewdness, which was as reassuring to Gridly as the 
seal of absolute fatuit3'. 

“I can’t imagine anything,” continued Flinte3'e, “ as could 
prevail over your lady, except some rare tactics of your old 
friend Jerr3^ Hence, I set it down a sure thing, that venyu- 
rable rake was the part3% Be I right ? ” 

“ No, Flinteye,” returned Gridly, “ that party was Death. 
She’s pegged out.” 

The Old Bummer’s pipe dropped from his mouth. His 
right arm began bounding. Dumb amazement was blazoned 
on his face, as he stared at his guest, but gave way, at 
length, to his habitual content. 

“ Mr. Gridly,” he exclaimed, “ I thank 3^ou. You’ve taken 


336 


A YOUN(} DISOIPLE. 


a load off Mr. Flinte^'e’s mind, and a goring thorn out of his 
heart. It ain’t no disgrace to be cut out by that part3\” 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” cried the Brand, “ they’re done, to a 
hair.” 

‘‘ Well, bring ’em and clear ! ” was the command. “ I can’t 
toly urate any dipping.” 

Accordingly, the Brand served up the two “ snifters ” and 
then disappeared. 

“ Did she go off sudding?” inquired Flinteye, “ or was it 
slow and lingering?” 

Gridly refreshed himself from his glass. 

“I was counting on it quite a spell,” said he, “ but it 
came tol-lol sudden, after all. I guess it alwa3"s does. Yes, 
she fell off sudden, at last.” 

“ Just so, just so,” observed the simple listener. “ Simyu- 
lar to a pear as is stung and blasted in the core. You was 
lucky. If that lady hadn’t fell off just the wa3" she did, take 
my word for it, she’d hung on for years. Was it fever on 
the sperrits, or some fatal inward turn as struck to her 
vitals? ” 

Something a little out of the common, I guess,” said 
Gridly. “ It’s hard to find out anything from these doctors. 
He talked Latin enough, — a d — d sight more than he 
knew. I’ll swear. But all I could make out was congestion 
of something that sounded like angelina pectoris ^ 

“ Yes,” observed the Old Bummer, “ I’ve always noticed 
that there congestion is a handy word with ’em. Was I to 
hazard m3' opinion on it, I should say it’s a tool as has done 
the business for many a fleeting mortal.” 

“ She’d had an old heart complaint,” resumed Gridl3', 
“ hanging round for years, and lately her heart took to jump- 
ing bad if anybod3' came near or spoke loud.” 

“ P’obably there’d been too much pressure put on it,” sug- 
gested the Old Bummer. “ Water, or something else, laying 
too heavy round it. It’s said to be very wearing and tearing 
on the vitals. A good many water-drinkers go that way. 
I’ve alwa3's been afraid of water, myself.” 

“Well,” resumed Gridly, “ our said Western trip nearly 
used her up. Whether ’twas the worry of the journey, or 
whether ’twas because her time had come, I don’t know, but 
we Hadn’t more than got settled before she took down sick. 


MR. GRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 337 


For a week or two she hadn’t gabbled very much, and I put 
that down a bad sign.” 

“ You was right,” interposed Flinte3’e. “ When them 
talkative fair ones begin to grow still, it’s like when a dog 
stops sweating at the nose, — a sure, sign the^^’re very sick.” 

“ So, I went for the doctor,” continued Gridly. “ I don’t 
claim I was boiling over anxious for her to get well. I don’t 
pretend ain’thing of the kind. But a man likes to give his 
wife a fair chance, 3'ou know.” 

“Yes,” assented Flinteye, “I’ve heard they do, some- 
times, — here and there one. But it’s a question I ain’t quite 
clear on. In my own mind I’ve got to let it soak a spell 
longer ; and, while soaking, here’s looking at 3’ou, Mr. 
Gridly.” 

A commotion arose within the Old Bummer’s glass, as his 
tremulous hand lifted it, and many breakers dashed over the 
edge before it reached his lips. 

“ You are a comical cuss,” said Gridl}", as he set down his 
tumbler. “You ought to been clown to a circus. But, 
besides wanting to do all I could for her, I had to have a 
doctor’s certificate if she pegged out, or else a post-mortem ; 
and post-mortems are a bother.” 

“Just so,” assented the other; “I believe they he some- 
times inconvenient.” 

That keen, furtive glance shot forth again from Gridly’s 
eyes, but died away at sight of the unreasoning content that 
shone on the Old Bummer’s artless face. 

“ Well, the doctor came,” continued Gridly, “ and told her 
to run out her tongue. Then he fingered her pulse, and 
hummed, and hawed, and looked wise.” 

“ P’obably he shook his head,” surmised Flinte^^e. “ I’ve 
always noticed it’s a wa\' the}' have when rattled on a case. 
If you ever see one of ’em shake his head and look wiser than 
Solomon — you may peg it down and screw it there — he’s 
cornered. Tackle him, then, with a plain question ; ask him 
how it’s going to be. He’s got his little ‘ if’ all ready. If 
the congestion don’t flare up, or, if something or other don’t 
do something else, he hopes to pull him through all right. 
But, if inflammation sets in, it will be a tight rub to float him 
over. There’s a crowd of things always wanting to set in ; 
they go very heavy on that setting-in business.” 


338 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Well,” resumed Gridlj^, “ he looked wise as a nipper, and 
talked Latin. He said he was afraid inflammation would set 
in before morning ; and, if it did, he thought I’d better watch 
her pretty close. How the d — 1 w^as I to know if it set in, 
and wdiat good would it do to watch her pretty close, I’d like 
to know. Then he left some drops, and beat me out of five 
dollars. I gave the drops, steady ; but she pegged along. 
It was tol-lol certain she hadn’t but few more holes to go. 
She was thirsty all the time, but threw up everything she 
drank. The doctor told me, afterwards, he thought it would 
be so. He said it’s the way they generally go, with that kind 
of heart-disease. After awhile, she got purple in the face.” 

“A bad sign,” remarked the Old Bummer, with the air of 
one to whom that symptom was familiar. 

‘‘Then cramps took her,” pursued Gridl^’ ; “and the3^ 
worked her hard, — it was all I could do to hold her down. 
She couldn’t speak, but she had her senses ; I know she did, 
because she looked up and thanked me with her e3’es, for 
giving the medicine so regular, and for holding her tight, so 
she shouldn’t hurt herself bounding round the bed.” 

“ P’obably she knowed she was nearing the gate,” ob- 
served the Old Bummer, “ and. was bounding to get through.” 

“Well,” said Gridly, “the long and short of it is, she 
pegged out.” 

“She must had a rough passage,” remarked Flinteye ; 
“very rough, I should sa3".” 

“ Yes, it taas tedious,” said Gridly. “Of course, if she 
had to go, I’m glad she’s gone, — there’s no use in pretend- 
ing not. But I’d rather she could went faster. ’Twas a hard 
struggle to look at.” 

“ Certingly, certingly,” said Flinteye ; “ but you have the 
comfort of thinking you done 3’our best ; and that’s a great 
thing to have. Undoubtably you reflect, and re-reflect, how 
you watched by that there gasping form, and give her dose 
arter dose, and kept her hands from striking out in a spas- 
mod3nical way, knowing all the time you was doing your best 
to float her over. I take it, it don’t conflict with you, and 
prehaps ’twas luck for her, she stranded where she did. But, 
now she’s fled and gone, it must be a tremenduous comfort 
to think on that there grateful look she give, when she seen 
how faithful 3^11 was trying to float her over. Mr. Gridl3’, 


MR, ORIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 339 


preimps her doctor was misfortunate in his rem^yudies. Did 
3’oii notice whether she growed more purple and spasmod3’u- 
cal with eveiT dose ? ” 

“Couldn’t say about that,” answered Gridly. “Fact is, 
I was tol-lol shak3' m3'self at the time.” 

“ Of course 3'ou was,” replied the other ; “ and it does 3’ou 
credit. A veiy quaking thing I should call it, for a man to 
see the partner of his sorrys reduced to such a crit3mcal sit- 
uation, and growing more crityucal with ever3^ dose. Un- 
doabtabl3" 3"Ou done 3’our best. But you may rivet it down a 
sui-e thing, that purple stain is not to be erad3mcated from the 
human frame. I’ve been a great sufferer myself. P’obabl3' 
you’ve noticed how it’s settled in my nose. Various medy- 
ucal men have treated that there feature, and some of ’em 
used it might3^ rough ; but they all failed to eradyucate it. 
Tlie first set on some leeches and bleached it out. But they 
scored it dreadful bad, and it relapsed very speedy. Alter 
him, sundiy parties had their crack at it, but none of ’em 
lieaded off the complaint. They all said I drank too much. 
Undoubtablv the3’’ was correct. I’ve talked with man3^ a 
purple nose since then, and they all agree it’s drinking too 
much water. But the last doctor that tackled that lineament, 
struck the liniment for me. He said like cures like, — rum 
causes a simyular trouble, and gin is the remyudy. I 
follied that advice, but it kept purpling up on me. Then he 
said there was congestion into it, and ’twas threatened with 
inflammation, but it would come to a crisis and mend, arter 
his fees was settled, and, meanwhile, I must stick to the 
treatment. So, I paid up and pulled away, steady, on the 
medicine. Likeways be I pulling 3’et, but, you see, it’s far 
from eradyucated. Of the two, methink it’s gaining on me. 
But how about the party you intend for Snib number two? 
You can depend on'me, Mr. Gridly, if anything’s wanted in 
the captivating line. For you, I’d out-Flinteye myself.” 

“It’s good of 3^ou,” sneered Gridh'. “ You’d be a bril- 
liant one to snare that young miss ! ” 

“ Oho ! ” returned the other, “ if it’s a tender, young bird, 
I wouldn’t undertake the job. Command your friend in 
everything else, but don’t ask him to bridge too wide a span ! 
No, "no ; Mr. Flinteye has lost his grip and hung up his harp. 
Never again will he sweep its aged strings in a hopeless 


840 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


case. But I suppose ^’’ou’ll do your own luring. Tried 
your luck 3'et ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Gridly with a savage scowl, “ and a cursed 
poor job I made of it.” 

“Prehaps, then,” rejoined the other, “you can have some 
feeling for Mr. Flinte3"e, when he found himself floored. But 
I can see your mistake. In both garb and manner you failed 
to strike the higher peaks of the artificial.'^ 

“Yes, I’d ought to asked 3’our advice,” returned Gridly, 
“ although 3' oil stumbled once before. You are used to 
climbing round those peaks, I guess. Oh ! 3’es, 3^011 could 
told me just exactly what to do, — and had me coming back 
with a dust-pan in my ey^e.” 

“ Don’t, Mr. Gridly^ ! ” expostulated Flinteyx. “ I beg your 
pardon.” 

“Well,” resumed Gridly, “if the game depended on the 
cut of my coat, or the'glibness of my’ gab, I’d give up before 
I started. But I don’t consider the young miss has got a 
word to say about it. The way I look at it, it’s none of her 
d — d business. The old man’s the one to pick out her hus- 
band. I’m rich, he’s, poor. I’m worth one hundred thousand 
dollars in good, solid bonds, in my own safe, at my^ own 
house. He isn’t worth five. Well, I made a heavy bid for 
her, but he turned up his nose. I raised him a thousand, 
and he jumped for me with a knife. Now, what do y’ou 
s’pose I’m going to do — give it up ? ” 

“Was I to hazard my opinion,” replied Flinteye, “I 
should say^ you’re not so easy to beat ; p’obably you’ll folly 
some new tactics of the venyurable Jeremiah.” 

“ There’s no good in beating round the bush,” said Gridly. 
“ The long and short of it is. I’m going to own that snib. 
Fair or foul, have her I will.” 

Very determined was the tone of Gridly’s speech, and full 
of peril his resolve, to the innocent object of his pursuit, for 
he was a man not easily baffled, unlikely to swerve from his 
purpose, and full of resources in the accomplishment of his 
designs. 

“ Of course you will,” the Old Bummer soothingly as- 
sented. “ What with that tactyucal intellect and the deep- 
ness of your old, bottomless friend, I feel sure of it. I shall 
watch your progress with a hopeful eye.” 


MR. QRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 341 


“D — 1 take all this gabble!” cried Gridly. “Let the 
mone}^ talk ! I can use you, and I’ve got the cash to pay. 
Come out now, flat-footed ! Say whether 3 ’ou’re read}" to do 
a stroke of business, and take your solid dollars, cash down, 
on the nail I ” 

“ Go easy, now ! ” replied the other ; “ don’t rush me too 
rapid 1 The answer varies with the services and the pay.” 

“ Nothing hard about said service,” returned Gridly, “ and 
the pay is handsome. No more snibbing round and trying 
to captivate ; no danger of being floored again.” 

“ Don’t, Mr. Gridly ! ” expostulated the Old Bummer. “ I 
can’t tolyurate the least mention of that disaster. It’s wear- 
ing on my constitution every day.” 

“It’s only to take a boarder,” explained Gridly; “and 
the pay is up among the hundreds. Come, what do you 
say.?” 

“ I say we’d better take a couple of reflectors,” replied the 
Old Bummer. “ The subject needs ’em.” 

Having prepared them in liquid form, he returned to his 
seat, and, after due reflection, inquired : — 

“ About how high up among the hundreds?” 

“About ten of ’em,” said Gridl}", — for one month’s 
board, more or less, — half in advance, that’s all. Only 
a thousand dollars'a month.” 

The Old Bummer’s eyes dilated, in spite of himself. 

“ Now, our diet,” he remarked, “ is plain but substantial. 
Still, it might not suit yow.” 

Gridly Avas seized with a paroxysm of hissing. 

“Your diet!” he cried; “ oh. Lord ! Meat without any 
bones, I guess, — mostly rum. Flinteye, you’re off )the 
track. I ain’t the boarder. It’s a friend of mine — a nice 
young lady. Don’t you take, now?” 

“ Oh, I see, I s-ee ! ” exclaimed Flinteye, in a low, earnest 
voice of dawning intelligence. “ Your future Snib ! Deep ! 
deep ! Mr. Gridly, you may count me in. I’ll take that 
boarder.” 

“ Now you see, don’t you ?” chuckled Gridl}". “I don’t 
fool no time on any of 3 ’our d—d, captivating dodges. I 
know a trick to beat ’em all. Wait till I get my pretty 
young Snib landed in Mr. Flinteye’s boarding-house; then 
see if she won’t be ready to marry ! ” 


342 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Just so, just so,” said the Old Bummer, with friendly 
encouragement, while Gridly hissed himself livid in the face. 

“ Especially,” added Flinteye, by way of playful sarcasm, 
“ when she have learned to properly value that there wiiinin’ 
smile.” 

“ Winning smile or not,” returned Gridly, “ I guess she’ll 
take me, after all. Then we’ll see what capers the old man 
will cut when he knows, but has no proof, his pretty young 
miss is in the hands of Peter Gridl}^, Vampire, and party of 
the first part.” 

“Just so, Mr. Gridly,” chimed in Flinteye, “just so, to 
a dot. It will be a let-down for her old daddy, — rougher, 
on the whole, than a runaway match.” 

“’Twont be so d — d rough on her., though,” said Gridly. 

“ If she behaves herself, she’ll have all the money and style 
she wants. I’ll speak her fair, and treat her square. But, 
just so sure as she balks, she’ll find it devilish distressing.” 

The Old Bummer repeated his formula: “Just so, Mr. 
Gridly ; I clench it down, she would so ; and, since you take 
the name 3"ourself, I may allow the vampire is a exceeding 
rough bird. I think I should advise that there little beaut}’’ 
to give in peaceable. But how will 3'ou manage the pre- 
limyunaries? I have knowed vampires upset, if they didn’t 
steer uncommon cautious.”. 

“There won’t be no upset about this,” said Gridl}'. 
“ Now, do 3'Ou contract to take her in, and keep her safe, 
on them aforesaid terms ? ” 

“ I’m only to board her and keep her safe?” 

“ That’s all.” 

“ I’m to have five hundred, cash, on the start?” 

“ Yes, down on the nail.” 

“ Where be the nail?” 

“Just wherever you say when the bird is once caged.” 

“Well, then,” said Mr. Flinte3’e, “booms the answer, I 
close on that contract. Mr. Flinteye pledges you his beam- ■ 
ing honor, he’ll take that bird into his cage, and keep her 
safe.” 

“ Slie might let herself, out the window,” said Gridly. 
“ How about that?” 

“ Never you fear ! ” replied Flinteye. “ That window will 
'be tended to.” 


MR. ORIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 343 

“ But, suppose she worked on that boy’s feelings till he let 
her go ; how’s that? ” 

“ Not a bit of it, Mr. Gridly. That young man isn’t to be 
worked.” 

“She might go desperate before she gets used to it, and 
do herself a mischief.” 

“Never fear!” said the Old Bummer. “Mr. Flinteye 
himself will look out for that. Just rest you easy ! But 
when will she come?” 

“Can’t tell,” replied Gridl3" ; “maybe this week, ma^^be 
next. All you’ve got to do is to be ready, day or night, to 
take her in and keep her safe.” 

“Just so, Mr. Gridl}^ just so,” assented the other ; “ and 
all ready 3’ou’ll find me, night or day. But, if it’s an out- 
and-out capture, it must be a risky move. What might be 
your tactics for snapping of her up?” 

“ That’s my business,” returned Gridly. “ The pipes ain’t 
all laid, but your part is plain enough. I suppose you won’t 
object to an extra lodger, once in a while, will you?” 

“ Just so, Mr. Gridl}",” assented the other, with a signifi- 
cant contraction of one eye. 

“ How if said lodger is a vampire?” pursued Gridly^, with 
a relishing accent on the word. 

The Old Bummer answered, with enthusiasm : — 

“ Mr. Gridly, rest you easy ! I’ll lodge him like the king 
o’ the vampires.” 

Gridly' leaned back in his chair, and treated himself to a 
diabolical hiss. 

“ D — n him ! ” said he ; “he’d better took the cash, and 
give up the snib. Swindler, robber, scoundrel, am I? Vam- 
pire, am I ? ” 

“You don’t say so I ” exclaimed the Old Bummer. “ Not 
all them characters at once? ” 

“Them’s what he called me,” said Gridly. “D — n his 
eyes ! He couldn’t been more stubborn if ’twas his own 
daughter.” 

“ Not his daughter? ” inquired Flinteye. 

“ No ; his ward.” 

“ Not quite so rough on him, then,” decided Flinteye. 
“ But, still, pretty dreadful rough.” 

“What of it?” cried Gridly. “I’ve took my turn 


344 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


roughing it; why shouldn’t he? Yes, I expect it will just 
about peg him out. But that’s neither here nor there. All 
you’ve got to do is fill your contract. Now we’ll take a look 
at the room.” 

Mr. Flinteye led his visitor up-stairs to a scantily-furnished 
l oom, where the Brand lay upon a bed, snoring. 

“ A d — d poor roost,” was Gridly’s brief comment; “but 
so much the better. She’ll give in all the quicker.” 

Thereupon the twain returned to the bar-room. 

“ Well,” said Gridly, making ready to depart, “ the busi- 
ness is settled. Now, I’ll tell you one thing more, to open 
yoiir e3'es. Just so soon as the knot is tied, I’m going to lay 
down in your hands five thousand good, solid dollars, in gold. 
There’s a stake for you, Flinte3'e ! When you get that in 
your sock, you’ll be fixed for life.” 

Evidently, Gridly was bent upon success, and would spare 
no promises likely to insure it. 

Boundless gratitude beamed from the Old Bummer’s fiery 
features. “ Mr. Gridl3’,” said he, as he followed his guest to 
the door, “ language is inadyuquate to enclose ra3^ thanks. 
You can count on me, B3' your kind help, I really do begin 
to see a future a-looming for Mr. Flinteye.” 

They stopped a moment on the threshold, and the Old 
Bummer’s hand kept dodging, vainl3^, at the other’s palm, 
until Gridh", feinting with his left, succeeded in grasping it 
with his right. Both right arms then described triangles and 
l)ol3’gons in the air, and with a fraternal farewell the twain 
purled. The Old Bummer closed the door, appeased his 
l ostlcss right arm, and lighted his pipe. 

•• There, Mr. Flinteye,” said he, “ many a rank villain 
have 3’ou knowed, — unmityugated birds of every feather, — 
the very vilest of the rampant vile. But the vampire bird 
out-matches ’em all. Ah, Mr. Gridly ! 3^ou’ve been climb- 
ing a dreadful long ladder this many a year, and now, close 
l)eliind, your very good friend Old Jerry prods 3^ou on. 
You’ve got but few rounds left before you’re done ; — 01113^ a 
fe w steps more and over 3’ou go.” 

Ending this brief soliloquy, Mr. Flinte3’e called his appren- 
tice, and the Brand soon appeared. 

“ Bubber, how old be 3'ou?” said the Old Bummer. 

“ How old be I?” echoed the wondering Brand. “ I don’t 


MR. GRIDLY MAKES ANOTHER CONTRACT. 345 


know ; but I bet I’m awful old, — for m}’ size and age. I’m 
a plaguey sight younger than I used to be, though. I’ve 
seen the lime [ wos wery near a hundred.” 

“ I call you about twenty-one,” said Mr. Flintej'e. “Now 
jingles number two, — was you ever in love? ” 

“ Not with nobody but Mr. Flinteye,” declared the adroit 
and truthful Brand. 

“ Oh, thank j'ou, thank you ! ” returned the Old Bummer, 
with an affable smile. “ Bubber, you are growing skilful 
with your brush ; that stripe was laid on well. Now chimes 
number three; how would you like to be j’ined in wedlock? ” 

“Me!” cried the astonished Brand. “Oh, good thun- 
der ! ” 

“ But, if 3'ou was to get married,” pursued the other, “ the 
Old Gentleman would set you up in fine order.” 

“ I’m in good order now, Mr. Flinte3'e,” returned the Brand ; 
“ magnum bonum^ just like the song says ; and I’d be afraid 
to risk it. P’r’aps if I wos to get married my luck would 
change. Don’t 3^011 b’lieve it offen spoils a feller’s luck? I’m 
on a stead3" streak now, an’ it’s the first I ever struck. I’d 
hate to have it ruined.” 

“ But see here,” the Old Bummer impatiently cried ; “ this 
won’t do. Here I’ve been and treated you like my own lost 
son. I’ve took 3’ou into business. A long time I’ve been 
figgering on your future ; and I’m getting ready to turn a big 
financial card, chiefly for'your benyufit, — a card as will keep 
you like a prince, long arter 3’our Old Gentleman is fled and 
gone. But did the Old Gentleman ever expect you’d turn 
against him? Did he suppose, all this time, he was warming 
a little viper into his bosom, to rare up and sting him at 
last? No, Bubber, most certingly did he not.” 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” said the troubled Brand, “ be you mel- 
ler?” 

“ No, Bubber, not mellow,” the other reproachfully an- 
svvered. “Only stung by disapp’intment, — to the 

core.” 

“Wos you in dead earnest?” cried the Brand. “Say, 
wos 3’ou ? ” 

“ Only stung, Bubber; that’s all,” repeated Mr. Flinte3^e, 
while he came it poignantly with both eyes; “stung to the 
very core.” 


346 


A YOUNG DISCIULG. 


“ Tm on it ! ” cried the remorseful Brand. “ You can bet 
3’our life 111 never sting your core. I’d dive in fire for yon. 
Fetch on your lad}’, if you mean it ; that’s all ; just fetch her 
on!” 

Now you’re talking!” exclaimed Mr. Flinte3’e. “I 
didn’t really believe you ever could plunge into that viper 
business, so sudding. The plans are all ready, and the 3’oung 
lady is coming here to board. You may as well make up 
your mind, Bubber, that fair one is the destined bride of the 
junior nighthawk.” 

“Oh, dear me ! ” ejaculated the bewildered Brand. “ Wot 
a ga}’ husband she’ll have! Nor I shan’t know wot to do 
with her, — no way in the world.” 

“ Never you mind whether he’s gay or not ! ” replied Flint- 
eye. “ Only let him keep on the square with his Old Gen- 
tleman and he’ll have such luck as he never dreamed of, — 
and as for the rest of it, was I to hazard my opinion I should 
sa}’ it won’t take 3’ou long to learn. Now go to bed and 
think of 3’our little sweetheart ! To-morrow we’ll begin to 
put on the polish, and post 3'ou on the p’ints.” 

“ J’ined in bedlock ! ” sighed the boding Brand. “ Oh, how 
rattled I feel ! ” and he started for his room. He looked back, 
however, from the door, and his gloomy countenance kindled 
faintly with sudden hope. 

“P’raps, though,” said he, “1 might find out I didn’t 
know m3’ bird, an’ get upset.” 

He then added, “ One thing I know : I’ll never sting your 
core,” and he was gone. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

TACTICS OF OLD JERRY. 

The apartments to which the Babbons had removed were 
the upper floor of a tenement house, far up town. Since 
their arrival Phoebe had found little leisure for going out, 
and, be3’ond the space of a few blocks, all was to her an un- 
known land. But, once settled in their new home, her 
thoughts turned toward some employment whereby she could 


TACTIC.^ OF OJA) JFRRY. Ml 

relieve herself from a condition of dependence. At length 
a suitable advertisement appeared, and she started to apply 
for the place. For the first time she was alone in the streets 
of a great city. The shop-windows offered a tempting dis- 
pla}', and there were novel sights and sounds everywhere ; 
but she delayed not, for the distance was long and it was 
alread}" late in the afternoon. According to the directions 
given by Mr. Babbon, she followed the busy avenue on which 
the}' lived, until she%und herself approaching a region of 
stately mansions. This she traversed, then passed through a 
large square, filled with idlers of both sexes and romping 
children, and reached a great thoroughfare, crowded with 
moving vehicles and pedestrians. Here'she lost her way, and 
wandered along until she was thoroughly fatigued. But, 
crossing at length into another residence quarter, she finally 
arrived at her destination. She was shown into a room 
where several applicants for the same situation were already 
assembled, one of whom was being questioned by the mis- 
tress. The time dragged by and another was examined ; 
and then a third. Phoebe waited, hopefully, but in vain ; — 
one of her predecessors was chosen. When she left the 
house it was quite dark. She started bravely off, however, 
undiscouragod by Iier failure but anxious to reach homo. 
Dan might have come, already, for he was expected that day. 
She hastened on, therefore, but no long time had elapsed 
when she began to look nervously around for some landmark. 
Everything was strange. She trembled a little, and retraced 
her steps to where she could discover the name of the street. 
On either side were great gloomy buildings, that looked to 
her more inhospitable than the darkest forest. The convic- 
tion rushed'upon her that she had lost her way, and she was 
seized with panic. A sudden presentiment as of some un- 
seen danger lurking near, fixed her feet fast to the ground. 
A well-dressed man passed, then came back, and bowed as 
he drew near. Phoebe strove to hide the tremor in her voice, 
and inquired the way to the Avenue. 

“I’ll take you there,” said the stranger; “but we’ll go 
have supper first,” and, thereupon, he passed Phoebe’s hand 
within his arm. His breath tainted the air with fumes of 
liquor ; his step was unsteady ; Phoebe snatched away her 
hand and fled. The other followed ; she heard his footsteps. 


:U8 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


keeping an even distance behind, and every moment in- 
creased her terror. Suddenl}’ she found herself in the glare 
of Broadway, but knew not where she was. The stranger 
passed her, waited at the next corner, stared when she went by, 
then followed again. Presently he was walking at her side. 

“ We’ll make it a tvine-suppei'” said he. 

Phoebe made no reply but almost ran. The other kept on 
with her. The street was thronged with people, and had 
she appealed to almost any of the passing crowd, no doubt 
she would have been quickly freed from her persecutor. But 
that obvious resource did not occur to her. 

“We’ll talie a carriage,” continued the other. “Come, 
that’s a good girl; what do 3’ou say?” 

“ ril have the next policeman answer .you,” replied 
Phcebe, and the stranger then fell behind. Her rapid pace 
and increasing fright were telling on her strength. Through 
a cross-street she believed that she saw the square whicli she 
had traversed in the afternoon, and thither she went. But 
no square was there. With aching limbs and a sinking heart 
she urged herself blindl}" along, until, overcome with exhaus- 
lion, she dropped upon a door-step to rest, and to collect lier 
bewildered thoughts. Presently her half-intoxicated pursuer 
was sitting beside lieri 

“Now be quiet, like a good girl,” said he. “ I’ve come 
along to see that nobody insulted 3’ou. But you are tired, 
and I think you’ve lost your way. Let me take you to Mrs. 
Brown’s, on the next block ; she’s a real good, kind-hearted 
lad^s and she belongs to our church. When you’re rested, 
she’ll go home with you, herself ; if it’s too far, she’ll let 
3^ou sta3^ all night, I know she will.” 

Phoebe staggered to her feet and shrank against the iron 
rail, looking around for help. She was nearl3’ beside herself. 
The other also rose and took hold of her hand. But a new- 
comer now appeared, darting across the street towards them. 
In an instant, he had clutched Phoebe’s tormentor and 
whirled him around as easily as if he were a child. 

“ There’s your whack! ” he cried, and, with a blow of the 
list, sent his quariy prone to the gutter. 

This champion was a tall 3’oung man, dressed in a flash3' 
st3de that showed his powerful figure to advantage. His 
short hair and heavy mustache were dyed jet black. His 


TACTICS OF OLD JERRY. U9 

chin and cheeks were shaven clean, except where enough 
whisker was left to piece out the growth on his lip and 
carry it in a semi-circle down to the neck. A profusion of 
cheap jewelry helped to classify him. As he addressed 
Phoebe his demeanor was intended to be respectful. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss,” said he, “ but .if you’ve lost 
your way, can’t 1 be of some assistance? ” 

Phoebe at once decided to accept this one’s proffered aid. 
Accordingly, she told him that she was tiying to find the 

Avenue. That was exactly where he was going, he said, 

and, if she would take him for an escort, he would see that 
she reached the avenue without further molestation ; and 
he added that it was dangerous for her to be there alone at 
that hour. Experience had convinced her of this, and, 
thankful for liis offer, she accompanied him. They turned 
into Houston Street. Drunken men reeled past, and lay 
stretched upon the door-steps here and there. Along the 
sidewalks flaunted debased women in tawdry finery, many of 
them with ghastly faces, whereon the death’s head was only 
half masked with rouge. Almost every door was the en- 
trance to a drinking-sliop or gambling-hell, or the conduit to 
a deeper .sink of infamy; and l he manifold oaths and loud- 
mouthed blasphemy that issued from those dens poisoned the 
air. Every corner was beset by brutal rowdies, and the 
filthy language bandied back and forth between them and 
the female wrecks floating past, was to Phoebe something 
horrible. Everywhere through that Godless neighborhood 
the abandoned whelps of vicious dams roved in gangs, emu- 
lous of each other’s curses, alert for small plunder, and con- 
tributing their shrill obscenity to the general stock. Phoebe 
had at first declined her companion’s arm ; but now she clung 
to it, and vainly’ strove to shut out the sights and sounds by' 
which she was surrounded. Though her escort hardly spoke, 
she perceived him to be coarse and ignorant; but he main- 
tained the respectful demeanor with which he had first ac- 
costed her, and that gave her some confidence ; she was only 
too glad of any protection in a place like that. Several 
times she glanced stealthily' at his face, for his bold features 
were not wholly strange. His voice, too, sounded not un- 
familiar. She wondered where she had ever seen him. Hut 
every step led them deeper into that slough of crime. Many 


350 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


loiterers were seen who closel^^ resembled her guide in dress 
and general appearance, some of whom gave him a friendly 
nod. And now Phoebe was alarmed at hearing one who 
passed salute him with a vile congratulation. His pace 
quickened, too, so that she could hardly keep up, fatigued 
and distressed as she was. The terrifying thought suggested 
itself that she was at his mercy, and that he was taking her 
further and further from home. He turned into a narrow 
street where few lamps could be seen. 

“ Only two more blocks,” said he, “and we land square 
on the av’n^’er.” 

It was a dismal road. Besides, Phoebe was startled by 
her escort’s eager haste. She tried to disengage her arm^ 
but he held it locked in his, and dragged her along. Then 
her last spark of courage was quenched. 

“ Please let me go ! ” she cried. 

“Not much ! ” he answered. 

Phoebe shook with fright, and looked wildly around for 
help. Her tongue was powerless to move, anil her lips re- 
fused to utter a sound, — they were virtually paralyzed. She 
would have fallen but that the other seized her round the 
waist. A moment the villain seemed irresolute. 

“ Too bad ! ” he muttered, with a dreadful oath, “ but it’s 
great graft.’" 

Only a moment was he moved with ^ity. One better im- 
pulse stirred in his base heart, and then was stifled. But 
that shocking oath Phoebe had heard once before, and now 
it rang again in her ears, as on the playground of the distant 
village school. 

“ Pinche}’ ! ” she but half articulated, “ it is 3’ou ! ” 

The other caught her up and ran a dozen steps to where 
a carriage stood by the curbstone with open door. 

“Oh, let me go! Pinchey, let me go!” she gasped. 
“ Don’t you know me? Don’t. you remember Phoebe Youno-? “ 

Her captor thrust her into the carriage and stopped her 
cries with Ins hand. The horses were lashed to a gallop, and 
a brazen voice from the box told that the driver was none 
other than Gridly. There was a transitory excitement in the 
street. A crowd of idlers assembled, and several policemen 
arrived in time to disperse them. Then all went on as be- 
Ibre, in that vicinity. 


TACTICS OF OLD JERRW 


3ol 

Phoebe’s memory had not deceived her ; — tlie kidnaper 
was indeed Pinchey, the cheat and bully of the distiict-school, 
whom Dan had conquered, now ripened into a professional 
thief. She struggled to spring out, though Pinchey offered 
no insult, nor any violence, except sufficient to detain her 
and keep her from making an outcry. She reminded him of 
the old school-daj^s, begging piteously to be released. She 
then tried to scream for help. But Pinchey passed his arm 
around her neck, and pressed one liand over her mouth, 
while with the other he brought out of his pocket a bottle of 
chloroform, saturated a handkerchief, and held it to her face. 
She drew the pungent vapor into her lungs and thought she 
was suffocating. One desperate battle she made, to escape 
the intoxicating fumes, and then her strength was all gone, 
— her agony over and forgotten. Delightful sensations 
came creeping through every nerve until, yielding to the 
wonderful magic of the potent fluid, she sobbed and sighed 
herself awa}" to unconciousness.- The kidnaper drew an 
old dingy wrapper over her dress, and covered her hat and 
her head with a hood. He then placed her, half-reclining, 
in an eas}" position, and kept her sleep unbroken by repeated 
use of the drug. How his thoughts reverted to his boyhood ! 
If her piteous crjy and his forgotten nickname in the village 
school, had made him waver, now her sightless eyes, and pale, 
uncomplaining face, displayed a picture of imperiled inno- 
cence that, by its very silence, cried aloud for his protection. 
But every better feeling was smothered in his mean soul. 
He was to be well paid for his share in this night’s danger- 
ous work, and the wages of his villany easily outweighed 
what few scruples could arise in a heart like his. 

Gridly drove at a furious pace. His eyes swept the streets ^ 
for signs of pursuit. He hissed and chuckled with devilish glee 
at the prospect of a favorable issue, believing that the audacity 
of the step was, itself, a guarantee of success. He pictured 
to himself the alarm at Phoebe’s home, that evening, and the 
grief that would settle there, as the days wore away and 
brought no tidings of the lost one. He enjoyed the thought 
of Mr. Babbon’s suspicions pointing to him. His fancy could 
see the old man visiting the head-quarters of police, and 
the detectives, day after da\'. For that he was prepared. No 
one, he was sure, knew of his connection with Flinteye, and 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


the police were welcome to search his house. But little cared 
he for detectives on his track. He was used to watching and 
to being watched. He felt able to baffle pursuit, and in the 
chase he could find pleasurable excitement, either as hunter 
or as game. Blinded by success, he even planned visits of 
condolence to the stricken household, and gradual represen- 
tations to them of an elopement ; and, with great satisfaction, 
he foresaw their final submission to the inevitable that was 
due to his superior abilities. To him an atmosphere of 
knavery was the breath of life. Long years of overreaching 
cunning had taught him full reliance on his craft. More 
than a decade of continuous litigation, wherein he had op- 
posed his wiles to the skill of the ablest law3'ers, had left 
him flushed with victor}^ and possessed of wealth. But that 
fascinating game was now ended. The food on which his 
scheming brain had fed was all devoured. ' For him the dull 
routine of honest endeavor would have been a frozen zone, 
and in a quiet, indolent enjoyment of his spoils, the rank lux- 
uriance of his ambition would have withered, as in some 
arid desert. Round and round had he sailed for 3’ears on 
the Maelstrom of crime, insensibl3" crossing inner currents, 
until at last he was whirling at giddy speed, on a spiral 
tide whose frightful vortex was near at hand but hidden from 
his view. Thus far, b3' the counsels of Jeny D., had he 
prospered ; nor, on this occasion, could his conveyance have 
gone more free from mishap if patron Jerr3^ himself had 
been the driver. 

Emerging from the dark, crooked alley into a more fre- 
quented street, Gridly slackened his pace to avoid attracting 
notice, as well as to keep his horses in condition for swift 
flight. B3^ this time, as he well knew, the telegraph had 
told the story of the abduction in every precinct. But his 
equipage w^as indistinguishable among the hundreds of simi- 
lar ones hurrying in all directions, and, undetected, he at 
length reached Mr. Flinteye’s dwelling. He jumped from 
the box and entered the bar-room, like a thirsty coachman 
seeking a dram. The Brand came out immediately, and 
sauntered along, scouting for spies. From the inside^ Flint- 
eye watched for an opportunity when they should be unob- 
served by an3^ loiterer in the vicinity. Presently the Brand, 
at the corner, signaled that the coast was clear. Gridly 


TACTICS- OF OLD JERRY. 


853 

came forth wiping his month, and busied himself about the 
horses. A sign from Flinteye told him that the right time 
had come, and, with Pinchcy’s help, he carried the sleeping 
girl into the Clover- Leaf. The proprietor led the way up- 
stairs to a small room lighted onl}^ by the moon. There 
they slipped off the old, dingy frock that covered their cap- 
tive’s dress, removed the hood and the hat from her head, 
and left her lying on the bed unconscious. Gridly examined 
the fastenings of a grate across the window, and saw that 
Flinteye locked the door before they descended to the bar- 
room. 

“ She’s one of the heavy weights,” said Pinchey, with an 
oath. 

“Yes,” replied Gridly; “she’s one of the solid kind, — 
solid as a mackerel, and healthy as the d — 1. Not much 
blubber ; good, clear muscle, I guess, from head to foot. 
Did you notice her face ? ” 

“ Yes ; she’s a handsome bird,” declared the Old Bummer. 
“ Mr. Gridley, 3’ou’re in luck again. Old Jerry certingly 
takes care of his own.” 

“Yes;” said Pinche}^ ; “she’s a regular non-pareil^ — a 
caiTt-he-heat. She was always pretty, even when she was a 
little kid.” 

“ The d — 1 3’ou say ! ” clanged from Gridly’s brazen lips, 
as he stared at his tool. “ How the h — 1 do you know?” 

“ Ha ! ha I ” laughed Pinchey. “ Til tell you, when I want 
another stake. She’s got a young sport up yonder in the 
woods, and he ain’t no slouch, neither. One squeal from 
me would set him gunning for 3’ou, and then the d — 1 would 
get you sure. If .you ever run foul of that lad, just be ready 
to hand in your chips. But, it’s lushing-time ; come, set ’em 
up, boss ! ” , 

The Old Bummer ambled around the counter, and placed 
three glasses thereon. 

“ What’s yours?” said he to the 3’ounger villain. 

Pinchey signified that, under certain contingencies, it 
would be gin, but that, in fact, it was “Burbon.” 

“ Give me the same,” growled Gridly. 

The three glasses were half filled, clinked together, and 
simultaneously drained. 

“ So long,” said Pinchey. “ Pm off.” 


354 


A YOUNG Dl^GIPLE. 


“ Hold on ! ” cried Gridl}'. “ I’ve got a question.” 

“Salt it down!” returned Pincliey. “I’m on another 
racket now. So long, old pal 1 ” And awa}^ he sped. 

“Did 3’ousa3' 3’ our friend was the young' Nl):, Jeriy?” 
inquired the simple Old Bummer. 

“Oh, he be d — d !” snarled Gridl3^ “ for a Royal-Arch 
dead-beat I Setting up a black-mail on me. Let him tiy 
it 1 What do you say, now, to the tactics ; ain’t the work 
well done ? ” 

“To a charm,” replied Flinteye, “and, so far, without a 
slip. What a thing it is to have a tact3’ucal brain ! That’s 
a sw^eet little piece 3'ou’ve picked up.” 

“Never mind about that!” rejoined Gridty. “You’ve 
got your said boarder. Look sharp 3'ou don’t lose her, or 
you’ll miss the biggest plum 3’ou’ll ever see.” 

“Just so, Mr. Gridly, to a dot,” answered the other, ex- 
tending one hand towards a small dark spot on the counter 
around which his index-finger oscillated like a dipping- 
needle. 

“ That’s the one,” said he. 

“ One what?” demanded Gridly. 

“The nail^” explained Mr. Flinteye. “ Lay it down on 
that one ! ” 

Gridly counted out a roll of bank-notes, which the other 
transferred to his pocket while he inquired : — 

“ Anything to be done in the way of fetching of her to? 
I didn’t get a fair sight, but it struck me she’d been drugged 
exceeding powerful.” 

“Let her snooze !” returned Gridly. “She’ll wake up 
all right. But this won’t do for me ; I must get out with that 
team.” 

“But see here!” said Flinteye, following the other to 
the door, “I’ve knowed a lady dosed so severe she never 
did come to. Be you quite sure you’re a safe hand at the 
drugging lay? ’T would be rough on your friend to leave a 
young bird on his hands a trifle overdone.” 

“Oh, blast your gab !” cried Gridly. “I tell 3^ou it’s 
all right. I can’t stop no longer, blit your little ' boarder 
may look for a visit to-night.” 

idle other winked an intelligent assent and Gridly took 
himself off. The Old Bummer then returned to the counter, 
and leaned thereon with an abstracted air. 


TACTICS OF OLD JERRY. 


355 


“Soars the qneiy,” he said aloud, “ it all right? 
Swoops the answer, not yet, but soon to be. The vampire 
bird sa3’s yes, but what do Mr. Flinteye say? Merrily this : 
he has knowed such fowl upset when they thought it was 
all right.” 

The Brand, who had been watching Gridlj^’s horses, now 
entered the room with a downcast air. 

“ Well, Bubber,” said Mr. Flinte3"e, “our little boarder 
has come.” 

“ Yes,” replied the unhappy Brand, “I seen her bonnet 
an’ gownd wos terrible shagg3', an’ I felt like a goner, — I 
bet she’ll have me.” 

“ When 3’ou see her without that old hood and gown,” 
returned Flinte3'e, “ 3^ou’ll sing another tune. Tm afraid she 
won’t.” 

“ Don’t you b’lieve it,” sighed the’ Brand. “ M3" luck is 
caving in, — I feel it in my bones.” 

“Now, here!” retorted Mr. Flinteye. “Never mind 
where 3^011 feel it I You’re edging up to the viper depart- 
ment again. Remember, Mr. Flinteye is steering y’our 
future just now ! ” 

“ I expect 3'ou’ll run it aground,” muttered the wretched 
Brand; “but I’m going to stand it. I’ve tumbled to ihe 
whole concern. That there old rag-bag never come here of 
her own wish. It’s a game of Mr. Gridly’s. He’s on some 
great lay. Another thing I know, — 3"Ou are rigging a 
tw'itch-up for him, — I see it in your e3’'e. Here’s just exactly 
how it is : he stole that old skinny pair o’ tongs, an’ you’re 
fixing for me to cut him out ; but, to match her right, I had 
ought to be a poker. Have I got to begin playin’ my figger, 
to-morrow — wot the3" is of it? ” 

‘ Certingly you have,” returned Flinte3"e ; “ and play it to 
win ! The pity is 3^011 didn’t practice long ago.” 

“ I know just how ’twill be,” boded the gloomy Brand. 
“I shall think I’m souring of her wery fast; but I shall be 
gummed. She’ll bait me on, an’ fetch me foul, afore I know 
it.” 

“ I wish I was sure of it,” said Mr. Flinteye. “Prehaps 
when you’ve once seen her, fair, you won’t be so dreadful 
conceited.” 

'‘^Setting up for a hrightgroom ! ” exclaimed the half- 


356 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


rebellious Brand with infinite scorn. “ I’ve awluz had to do- 
the wery things I never meant to.” 

“Careful, Bubber ! ” admonished Flinteye, “unless you 
want to settle down in the viper department for life. Better 
rare up at once, and sting your Old Gentleman plumb through 
the marrow. Plant a thorn into his bosom ; then peg away 
on it, till 3’ou’ve drove it to the butt. I wouldn’t stop 
even then. I’d keep on, pegging and stinging, till I had 
brought his gray hairs down in sony to the grave. Don’t 
3’ou think you would feel mucli better, Bubber, if you could 
onl}" see your Old Gentleman once reduced to a plant, — and 
reduced by a sting, at that? Wouldn’t it be a sweet comfort 
to know it was done by your hand? Bubber, look the Old 
Gentleman in the eye!” 

“ I wish’t you ^vouldn’l” remonstrated the penitent Brand. 
“ I’d many a Moke for .you.” 

“ Well, then, go and bunk in ! ” returned Flinte3’e. “ See 
3’ou come down in the morning well-polished and full-rigged ! 
To-morrow I’ll teach you the ropes.” 

“My luck is s’rinking,” muttered the dejected Brand; 
“but it’s all right. I would never had a taste only for 
you.” 

Thereupon he started, stoically, for his room. But his 
benefactor remained in his chair, weighing the chances of 
large gains from his financial card, building castles thereon 
for his young companion, and endeavoring, by a series of 
irregulars, to drive the chill of age from his heart. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 

“Setting up for a brlghtgroom T* repeated the unhappy 
Brand, as he entered his room. “ Good-b3'e, Little Bummer ! 
You’ve had it too gay.” 

A partition of thin boards separated the apartment from 
that where Phoebe was imprisoned. The Brand sat down 
and brooded over his doom. But, presently, he slipped 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 


357 


off his shoes and moved noiselessly from one crack to another, 
seeking one wide enough to give a view of his destined bride. 
Finding none sufficient for his purpose, he fell to work with 
his pocket-knife, and soon mortised a hole through the soft 
pine. Applying one eye to the aperture, he saw the little 
grated window, and the moonlight streaming upon a motion- 
less form on the bed. 

“ Gummed again ! ” he softly exclaimed ; “ no tongs there; 
nor rag-bag neither. He wos right. She’ll never have me.” 

One glance had wrought a great change in him. The fate 
he had dreaded now seemed a glorious fortune, far beyond 
his reach. He looked down at the floor in deep thought, like 
one who reviews his resources, and his hand traveled to and 
fro across his upper lip. 

“If 1 onl}" had a mustang!*^ said he. Then he gazed 
again at the captive. 

“ She’s asleep,” he whispered ; “ an’ I’m glad she is. Just 
so long as she don’t know nothing, she’ll be ha[:>py. When 
she wakes, she’ll get most awful mis’rable, right straight off. 
I know she will. This here ain’t no spot for her. Wot 
gorgeous curls! Just like — like a little angel I once 
knowed. I said she was a angel then, an’ I stick to it 3 *et. 
She wos one. I’d like to see the sunlight strike ’em ; — but 
the}" couldn’t beat the angel’s. Now I feel kind o’ singular. 
I do love her already, for that one thing, — just becos she 
makes me think o’ that little angel wot loved me once. 
There I There I see her move, — kind o’ restless-like I She 
knows, in her sleep, they’s something wrong ; an’ p’r’aps 
she’s a-dreaming of some horrid game going to happen. 
There ! There I see her hands, — how white they be I Look ! 
how they stretch out, — like she wos begging the Wampire ! 
But no use begging to a bird like him. See how the moon 
kind o’ gleams round her neck I An’ that shadder, — laying 
on her like a cross! It’s the window-bar, — I know it by 
the shape. Stole away ! I bet I he a-falling in love, the 
rapidest I can.” 

Phoebe moved uneasily, and then sat up, with a calm, list- 
less face, like the vacant look of a somnambulist. The 
dizziness caused by the chloroform passed off, and conscious- 
ness was restored. The last she remembered was struggling 
with Pinchey, in the carriage, and the wonderful charm that 


358 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


bad sped through every nerve, banishing her senses and 
annihilating her strength. And now came the terrifying 
thought that she was in some unknown cell. She rose , and 
listened. Nothing was heard but a distant whistle on the 
river, and the faint plasji of wavelets under the shed of the 
Clover-Leaf. A moment she stood, like a marble statue, 
half-hidden by its own shadow, half-silvered by the moon. 
To the wondering Brand it was as if his eyes had reached 
the confines of some higher world, and rested on its majestic 
queen. 

“Hullo!” he muttered, below his breath, Fve got the 
trembles ! ” 

Phoebe crossed the room on tiptoe, and tried the door. It 
was fastened. She hastened to the window and took hold of 
the grating. It was firm as the bars of a prison. She threw 
herself on the bed and groaned. Once more she tried the 
door with all her might, and gazed despairingl}- through the 
window at Uie brick walls towering far above, then knelt in 
' prayer. 

“ It ihight be some use for /ie?*,” whispered the Brand, 
“ though it never wos for me. Now I bet I could talk to 
her, — I’ve offen been mis’rable my own self. I know just 
how she feels. She’d ruther go plumb off the hooks than 
have that wampire catch her. One thing is 6‘Mre, — I’ve fell 
stone-dead in love, already. P’r’aps I had ought to go in 
an’ tell her how sorry I be, — how I’ll fight till I’m knocked 
to a plant if an3’body off*ers to touch her. If she says the 
word, ril even come a gum-game on the Old Gen’leman, an’ 
take her home, — if I do have to turn wiper, an’ rare up an’ 
sting his core. It would be a gay thing to see how thankful 
she’d be. Nobody knows but she might fall in love with me 
just for that one thing. Em on it., by the holy Gum!” 

The Brand now stole down-stairs, and hearkened till the 
sound of loud, regular breathing assured him that Flinteye 
was asleep. Then he crept to the door of Phoebe’s room, 
silently unfastened it, and entered like a shadow. Phoebe 
sprang up with clasped hands, and stood in speechless terror. 

“ Now, please don’t sing out ! ” urged the Brand, in a low 
tone. “ I’ll tell you all about it.” 

The entreat}’ was unnecessary, for Phoebe was literal I3’ 
deprived of speech. 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 


359 


“ Oh, how sorry I be to see you shibber so ! ” continued 
the Brand, in a voice whose sincerity could not be doubted. 
“ Stole away by a wampire ! Please don’t be scared now, 
an’ sing out, an’ wake up the Old Gen’leman ! It might be 
the ruination of the whole thing. Don’t be afeared o’ me ! 
j’d (live in tire for you. I’d be hammered to a plant afore 
I’d let anybody hurt you, — Gridly or any one else. See 
now ! Here’s all I’ll do to you.” 

He advanced, knelt before Phoebe, took her hand and laid 
it on his head. Phoebe was astonished at the mention of 
Gridly’s name no less than by this act of homage, and 
suffered her hand to remain. “There now!” the Brand 
continued, “ I bet you won’t be scared no more. See how 
I’m down on my bones afore you, sw'earing if anybody wos 
to touch you I’d reduce him to a plant, an’ re-reduce him 1 
How sorry I be for you ! Stole by a wampire ! But shake 
them trembles, miss I He shan’t never lay one talon on you. 
Just let him try it, and, afore he knows it, he’ll be wired to- 
gether with a hook into his skuld. Oh ! if 3*011 only guessed 
how you make me think of a little angel I once knowed, — 
the only one as ever wos good to me, — you wouldn’t be 
scared no more.” 

Though alone with him, and far from help, Phoebe felt that 
she had found a strange but devoted friend. To her it 
seemed that God had heard her prayer, and sent a protector at 
the moment when she knew not what dreadful fate to expect. 

“ Tell me where lam!” she begged. “ And who are 3’ou ? 
Who is kind to me in this horrible place?” 

The Brand rose, and, pointing .through the' window to the 
naked brick walls, said, — 

“ Could you bet where you be? Not if you wos to try a 
million 3*ears. You’re in the Clower-Leaf, and I’m the Little 
Bummer. Oh ! how you make me look back an’ think of a 
little angel I once knowed an’ loved ! That’s why I couldn’t 
see you hurted or scared, cos you look so simyular to her, — 
not if I wos a thousand times worse than I be, I couldn’t. 
But let that slide ! Our big main is, you’re in the Clower- 
Leaf. Where you come from I can’t tell ; but I do know 
how you come. You w’os fetched in a hack by the 
prcciousest pair o’ tigers Old Jerr}’ ever broke to a double 
harness. !Say, now ! don’t get them trembles again 1 ” 


360 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


“ I am not frightened now,” said Phoebe, in a voice whose 
tremor belied her words. “I believe God has sent you to 
help me.” 

“ I bet so, too,” declared the Brand ; “ an’ He couldn’t 
picked out a better one, — nor one as would like the game 
more. But, how come you in that hack? ” 

Phoebe told, as briefly as she could, what had transpired 
since she left home, until she was seized and thrown into the 
carriage. 

“ VV^ol, then,” said the Brand, “ I’ve got it rabbled down. 
Here’s how it wos. That there cove with the black mustang 
wos a gambuleer, or some such bird ; nor he wosn’t on his 
own hook. He wos hired by Gridly. I see it all, just as 
plain. Now, don’t be scared ! Say the word an’ down I go 
plumb on m3’ bones. Don’t 3-ou b’lieve me? I wish’t I 
had that blood3^ wampire here ; then 3'ou’d b’lieve me. 
Then you’d say I ain’t the one to see 3’ou hurted nor scared.” 

“ But let me go ! ” cried Phoebe. “ Won’t 3’OU help me? — 
won’t you let me out? Or are 3’Ou, too, an enemy?” 

“ Oh dear me ! ” exclaimed the Brand ; “ she b’lieves I’m 
baiting of her on. I never wos on the bait, in all my life, — 
here I go.” 

Dropping on his knees, he continued, “There, miss! now 
wot do 3’OU see? Why, the Little' Bummer on his bones 
afore you, waiting for 3’ou to tie his talons behind his back, 
if you want to ; — a little cove as is wery shagg3’, p’r’aps, 
besides being stunted, but he isn’t a liar, nor he never went 
on the bait. Wot’s more, he’s just as ready to tackle a 
wampire as he once wos to brace into a grittier anim3’le, to 
save a little angel wot he loved. B’lieve him, now, when he 
sa3"s he’ll stand afore you, to keep off every hurt. Sa3’ ! 
won’t 3"ou ? ” 

His eccentric behavior seemed strangely familiar to Phoebe, 
and his words fell on her ears like the sound of some for- 
gotten language. 

“ But why don’t 3’ou let me goV’ she asked, with trembling 
lips. “ Let me out now I ” 

“ Cos I must tell you all about it,” said the Brand ; “an’, 
when you’ve heard it, maybe you won’t want to go. P’r’aps 
you’ll stay, when 3^011 know wot luck you’ll strike. Remem- 
ber not to sing out, or you’ll ruin the whole game ! May I 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 


361 


kiss that gorgeous hand? — it’s a thing I never done in all 
my life.” 

Phoebe held out her hand, and the Brand, still on his knees, 
carried it to his lips. She dared not refuse, so perilous 
seemed her situation. But every word and act of this odd 
champion showed a deep, though unaccountable, devotion, 
which shamed the distrust which she could not hide. 

“ I’ll trust you,” she cried impulsively. “ I will trust you. 
Tell me all you wish, then help me away ! I’ll thank you all 
m3" life.” 

The Brand rose, and, leaning upon the window-sill, 
began : — 

“ Here’s how it is. This goaty place where 3"Ou are 
jugged is the Clower-Leaf, an’ it’s kep’ by the Old Gen’le- 
man, — a nobby old bummer as is death on nips, reg’lars, 
an’ such things. His name is Mr. Flinte3’e, an’ he’s on a 
hoirid lay. No matter about the la}", but it’s a awful horrid 
one ; that’s a sure thing. He’s got a ’prentice an’ that’s 
me; him an’ me run this here Clower-Leaf. Wol, one day, 
not long ago, Mr. Gridly hove round, an’ I knowed he wos 
up to some tall game. I seen it crinkle in his e3’e. The}" 
set down to their nips, an’ I wos sent out. Byme-bye, Mr. 
Gridly toddled off ; an’ the next time I spotted him he drived 
up on thtit there hack an’ lugged you in. Now don’t you 
see how ’twos? He took board for you with Mr. Flinteye. 
Arter he’d got that fixed, he hired Mr. Burgulcer to do the 
baiting an’ nabbing, while he handled the ribbons an’ steered 
the nags. I expect they wos laying for you when you left 
home. That tall cove baited you along, nabbed you, 
chucked you into the hack, an’ give you medsun to make 
you sleep. While he kep’ you still, the Wampire wos lather- 
ing them nags an’ a-rumbling for the Clower-Leaf. So here 
you be ; but don’t feel scared ! ” 

Phoebe’s terror had been calmed in some degree by the 
assurances of the Brand. But now, as she learned that she 
was in Gridly’s power, she began to tremble violently. 

“ Will you promise to keep him away?” she cried. “ Tell 
me ; promise me, you won’t let him in till I am gone ! ” 

“ You bet I don’t !” returned the Brand. “ He thinks he’s 
got a sure thing. He’ll find he hasn’t. Wot the Old Gen’le- 
man is up to he don’t know ; but I do ; — rigging a iwitch-up 


362 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


for him. I see it in his eye. Now, please don’t laugh ; but 
here’s wot the Old Gen’leman wants. He wants you an’ me 
to fall dead in love, an’ be j’ined in bedlock. He does, by 
Gum ! An’ he’ll set us up, magnum bonum., in good order, 
with a gorgeous house, an’ two sprj^ nngs, an’ lots an’ lots o’ 
chink. I told him I’d ruther stay on my own hook — just the 
way I be now — a little bummer ; cos I hated to risk being 
j’ined in bedlock. But he said I had got it to do, or else 
I’d come the wiper-game, an’ sting his core. I told him 
I’d do my best to fall in love with the lady, an’ I’ve done it 
already. Now, please don’t laugh, but tell me true ! How 
do I strike you by moonlight? Do you bet you could fall in 
love with me, in time ? ” 

The door, which the Brand had left unlocked, now swung 
open. Phoebe darted towards it, with the design of escaping 
to the street. But the Brand was too quick. With a spring 
he intercepted her and silently closed the door. 

“ Not now 1 not now ! ” he cried, in a low voice. But 
don’t be frighted ! -Look ! here I be, plumb down.” 

He knelt again, and held out his hands. 

“ Ribbet ’em together,” said he, “ if you want to. I say 
you sha’n’t be scared. Won’t you b’lieve me, when I’m ready 
to have a nail smacked through my talons ? ” 

‘‘ Oh ! what shall I do? ” groaned Phcebe. “ Oh, let me go ! 
Let me go ! ” 

“ ’Sh ! ’sh ! ” whispered the Brand. “ Don’t start the Old 
Gen’leman ! No telling wot he might do, without his reg’lars 
aboard. That’s why I can’t let you go yet. He’d be sure to 
wake up an’ put a stopper on it.” 

Phoebe’s remaining strength was fast giving way, under the 
prolonged strain. IShe retreated to the window, and looked 
out with indescribable yearning for one who was far away. 
From her lips leaped the involuntary, despairing cry, — 

“Oh, Dan! 0/i, Dan!” 

But that weak, hopeless appeal thrilled through and through 
the Brand. Once before had he heard it, and that scene now 
flashed before him. Again he saw himself writhing in the 
grim jaws of the savage brute, heard the scream for help from 
the cliff behind, and beheld Dan’s agile form swaying down 
from the overhanging tree. Swift as a panther he bounded 
across the room. One hand caught Phoebe’s shoulder, the 
other her wrist. 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 


863 


“ Wot tons it?"’ he cried. ‘‘ Here ! Turn 3'our face to the 
moon ! Now tell me wot you said ! ” 

Phoebe was overcome by his fierce earnestness. Her limbs 
gave wa3% and she sank, senseless, to the fioor. But the Brand 
knelt b3’ her side, and pushing back the thick tresses from 
her lace, bent over her with a self-reproachful, wistful gaze. 

“ Swoonded away at me!” he murmured. “ Be I more 
horrid than Bewor? Would she gone swoonding if she’d uv 
knowed me ? Stole away b3’ a wampire ! It is the angel ; — 
the one I loved an’ would died for ; — the onlv one as wos 
awluz good an’ kind to me. Oh, Lord ! how white she be ! 
Pale as a plant, an’ aivftil still ! Now let that wampire 
come I ” 

He brought a pillow and laid her head tenderly thereon. 
Still she moved not. He held his ear close to her lips but 
caught no souml, and not a breath touched his cheek. He 
leaped to his feet. 

‘‘ A nip’s the thing for swoonds ! ” he said, and then stole 
swiftly down-stairs. Skulking past the sleeping form of the 
Old Bummer, he took a bottle from the shelf and hastened 
back. He poured the liquor between Phoebe’s lips and bathed 
her face. 

‘‘If she onl3" could swallow!” he mournfully exclaimed. 
“ I had ought to knowed ’twos her. Nor I wouldn’t b’lieved 
I could ever forget her, — not even when I’m reduced to a 
plant. Stole away by the Wampire! Oh! Oh! how lucky 
1 wos here ! ” 

Phoebe’s eyes unclosed and she tried to rise. But the 
Brand pressed her gently back, while he entreated, “ Don’t, 
3^ou blessed angel! don’t, till 3^ou get over it! Wait till I 
tell you a story I know ; then you won’t be scared no more. 
Here’s the way of it. Once they wos a little covey wot lived 
with a holy man. Not so dreadful holy, 3’OU know, but, then, 
pretty dreadful holy. That is, he played he wos. Some 
folks' thought he could beat the angel Gaybril all hollow. 
But that little cove wos inside the ropes an’ he knowed better. 
He knowed him for the cruelest bird out, except a wampire. 
A wampire an’ him would be just even ; — they might try 
forever an’ amen, but neither one would beat. Wol, that 
3’^oung cove3' wos the most mis’rable little feller going. He 
tried his best for to steer for the Shinin’ Shore, but ’twosn’t 


364 


A YOUNO DISCIPLE. 


110 use. ^Most eveiybod}" roughed it on him the roughest 
thej’ knowed how, except one little angel wot went to school 
with him. Her name wos — wol, no matter wot her name 
wos, but she wos might}- good an’ kind to him. Don’t you 
s’pose he remembers it? Do you b’lieve he’s forgot the only 
one as ever loved him any? No, I bet he never did; an’, 
wot’s more, he never will.” 

Phoebe now stood up and looked at the Brand full of 
troubled astonishment. He also rose. He turned his back 
to the moonlight and continued : — 

“I could tell you enough about that old Christian crack- 
eydile to fill a hundred books ; — how he hunted that there 
small one, — an’ wore him out, — an’ stunted him out of bis 
growth, — an’ drived him to ruin. But ’twould branch me 
out too far. Now, wot do you s’pose that little rag-bag’s 
name wos? But, never mind! don’t bet, yet; just wait an’ 
hear the story ! ” 

More troubled and more amazed every moment, Phoebe 
vainly strained her eyes to pierce the shadow that hid the 
face of the speaker. She stood fairly in the light, — her coun- 
tenance, her attitude, her silence, all betokening the absorb- 
ing interest with which she listened. But the Brand, 
delighted at her emotion, continued : — 

“ Wol, one day that young hellian wos out, tramping the 
woods. First he knowed he seen that little angel coming 
fast as she could run, an’ pale as snow. No wonder she wos 
pale 1 A bloody beast wos tearing for her, like foaming 
mad. He had his tushes peeled, all ready to pull her down.” 

Phoebe started and hardly repressed a loud cry.- Then she 
murmured : — 

“ But he was burned to death.” 

‘ “ Kee’ still! kee* still!'* urged the Brand. “Don’t bet 
yet! Wait till you know the story! Wait till you hear 
wot that small hellian done ! He seen they wosn’t" no time 
to lose. He knowed in one more minute the little angel wot 
loved him would be a goner, an’ for’ard he jumped. Purp 
sailed in ahead — no ! no ! don't bet now! — an’ in less than 
a second he sailed out again, a gone Purp. Not yet ! Not 
yet ! Hold up, a minute ! Wait till I ask you would that 
small Flintyheart, wot once give himself to die for the 
angel, now see her hurted? Would that young child o’ 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 


365 


Satan scare her? Would he let anybody touch her? Sa}^, 
now ! don’t you b’lieve that Firebrand is just as ready to 
mix into the Wampire as ever he wos to light on Bewor? 
Now bet ! — why don’t 30 U Phoebe? ” 

Phoebe shook with excitement, and gazed on the Brand as 
she would have stared at one risen from the dead. Was she 
under the spell of the kidnaper’s magic drug? She moved 
a step nearer, and laid her hand upon the Brand’s with a 
piercing look, as though her own luminous eyes could dispel 
the darkness and discern some remembered feature of 
Deacon Biggot’s little slave. 

“ Come to the light !” he cried, and, leading her close to 
the window, turned his face straight to the bright, full moon. 
His eyes were glistening with tears. 

“ Now look ! ” he cried again, in eager, exultant tones. 
“Look at the Little Bummer! Ain’t you never seen him 
afore ? Now why don’t you het^ PhoBbe ? ” 

Phoebe looked fixedly at him, and, for an instant, as through 
a misty veil, she caught the image of her own deep, dark- 
blue orbs. And was there a reflected curve of her own fair 
brow? Her glance swept round the room, as if to rouse 
herself from a bewildering dream. Were the wonderful events 
of this day the hallucinations of a disordered brain, and this 
speaking form but a phantom? 

“Blit he was burned to death,” she faltered again. 

“No I No ! ” cried the Brand. “Only singed 1 Cheerp ! 
Cheerp ! Phoebe, here I he; an’ Pm hungry for the Wampire.” 

Doubt or distrust could no longer exist. Phoebe grasped 
the Brand by botli hands. She called him by the old name. 

“ Oh, Jackey I ” she sobbed. “ Once before God sent you 
to help me, and now — ” 

“ An’ now,” struck in the Brand, “ he’s cut me out a taller 
job. He’s picked the right one this time, an’ rigged the jig 
all right. Against that wampire he’s matched a nighthawk. 
Seems like I wos made for just two games. Years ago 1 wos 
nabbed by that old, goaty Christian, an’ hammered like a 
boss-shoe. Now I see wot it wos for ; to make me tough 
as a crowbar an’ spry as a cat, — ready for Bewor. Wol, us 
two braced in, an’ half m.y job was done. Then wos I sent 
here, an’ I never knowed wot for. Now I see ; to train 
me for the Wampire. Be I trained? I bet I he. Making 


366 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


love to you ! How ’twould rig me now, if all this time I’d 
been playing of my figger.” 

“ To-morrow,” said Phoebe, “ I want you to tell me all 
about it. But now 3^011 must take me home.” 

“ Not 3’et, Phoebe,” returned the Brand. “ First I must 
go see the Old Gen’leman. But no one can get in here. 
Don’t you be scared no more.” 

Phoebe knelt by the window, while the Brand left the 
room. From the door he looked back, however, sa3^ing, 
“ Phoebe, s’pose 3’ou put in one or two for me ; it might be 
some use now.” 

He bounded down-stairs and shook the Old Bummer amain, 
shouting : — 

“ Wake up. Old Gen’leman ! It’s Phoebe ! ” 

Mr. Flinte3’e sprang from his chair and stood, his e3"es 
wandering around the room, like one who doubted his own 
senses. 

“ Oh, good Gum!” exclaimed the Brand. “Wot is the 
matter 1 Wot makes 3’Ou act so sing’lar ? ” 

The other’s gaze settled upon his companion. “I must 
dreamed it,” he muttered. “ I dreamed 3’ou was sounding 
a name in m3" ear. It made me vibrate to the core. Bubber, 
methought the3" bad come back once more, — them days long 
fled and gone.” 

“ I wish’t I knowed how to begin,” said the Brand. 

“ Now see here ! ” returned Mr. Flinte3"e, “ whenever the 
Old Gentleman’s got anything to tell he has one little rule 
and one small method. He begins at the root, and travels 
along the main trunk till it tapers down to a proper flneness ; 
then, if he wants to, he vaults back and branches out onto 
whatever offshoots harmyunize with his line o’ vision. Now, 
if you’ve got anything worth saying, I’d counsel you to 
adopt that there little rule and that same small method.” 

But the Brand was in a feverish mood that admitted nei- 
ther rule nor method. 

“ Bet wot I’ve found out I ” he cried. “ Bet, if you can ! ” 

Mr. Flinteve offered no conjecture, but came it, h3"pothet- 
ically, with alternate eyes. 

“Oh, hurry up!” urged the eager Brand. “ Wol, here 
it is. I’ve found out I do know my bird. Once I went to 
school with her. We both went to that old Christian wolf 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. :3G7 

you’ve offen heard me speak of. Now I’ll tell you who he 
wos. His name wos Deacon Biggot, an’ hers — O mighty 
Gum ! how you look ! — an’ hers is Phoebe Young.” 

These words seemed to drive the other demented. He 
dashed up-stairs, and rushed at Phoebe like a madman, 
followed closel}^ by the astounded Brand. Phoebe had risen 
from her knees wiien Flinte3’e seized her hand and fastened 
a scrutinizing gaze on her face. But the Brand, clutching 
him fiercely by the arm, 3’elled : — 

“ Don’t you huH that angel ! By the Almighty God, I’ll 
tackle you ! I will.''’ 

“Bubber!” thundered the Old Bummer, “strike the 
light ! ” 

“No, I don’t!” replied the Brand’s shrill voice. “I’d 
hate to do it ; but let go quick., or in I sail ! ” 

That instant the other loosed his hold and attempted to 
draw a match from his pocket. But his arms were now 
wildly describing geometrical figures in the air, and the 
Brand, seeing him helpless, lighted a lamp. 

“ There now,” the latter sullenly muttered ; “ keep your 
talons off, an’ I’ll do the simyular thing. One second more, 
though, an’ in I’d sailed. Oh, look ! If he wosn’t most 
gen’W so awful watery round the lanterns I’d bet he wos 
crying, — a game I’ve never seen him come afore.” 

Tears were, in fact, running down Flintey^e’s cheeks. He 
sat down on the bed, tucked his right arm under him to 
keep it still, and looked from Phoebe to the Brand, who 
watched, half-threatening, half-amazed, then back again to 
Phoebe, who stood spell-bound. 

“ Little birdie,” said he, in a broken voice, “ did the3’ 
steal 3’ou awa3’ from your father?” 

Phoebe drew nearer to her vigilant young champion. 

“ No, sir,” she replied. “I have no father.” 

“No,” echoed the Brand, “she ain’t got none. Why 
hasn’t she? Cos he cleared out an’ left her, years ago, — 
just the way mine did, I bet. I’ve heard about it; how he 
come home one night drunk as a fiddler, an’ set the house 
on fire. They said he collared the oldest kid an’ cleared, for 
good. I expect he b’lieved the rest wos simmered to ashes, 
— all but him an’ the kid. Nobody ever heard of ’em since ; 
])ut I wouldn’t give two pins for that 3’oung one. That’s the 


368 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


kind o’ payrunt she had. He’d ought to had his neck 
wrung.” 

“ Bubber! ” Mr. Flinteye reproachful 1}^ returned, “ he got 
his reward. What be your name, my deary?” 

Phoebe had longed to be gone, and she felt certain that the 
Brand was able and read}' to set her free. But she could 
not stir. To her it seemed as if the veil was near being 
lifted from an unknown part of her childhood’s history. She 
pronounced her name. The old man wiped his eyes, and, 
mastering his emotion the best he could, pointed to tlie Brand 
and said, — 

“ M}' deary, tell me his name ! ” 

And Phoebe answered, “ He came from the Five Points 
Mission, but I never knew his last name. We all called 
him Jackey, or Jackedo.” 

“And 3"ou went to school with him to Deacon Biggot ; 
and he lived with Deacon Biggot?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ And you was kind to him, wasn’t 3’ou, my little birdie? ” 

“ Yes, sir, for I pitied him.” 

“ You was right, my deary ; ’twas nature you should love 
him. But 3'our mother, — her as died a cruel death, — 
and your brother, what of him 1 Did he never come back, my 
deary ? ” 

Phoebe’s agitation was doubled by the old man’s words, 
and by the emotion with which he was convulsed. 

“ Oh, but how like 3’ou was she,” he continued, “ when I 
first knowed her. And I was different then. Oh, 3’es, my 
deary, she was wonderful like what you be now, — tall, and 
straight, and fair, with that same shining hair falling round 
her shoulders glossier than satin threads and softer than vel- 
vet. It seems like she was living again in you ; but God 
k(;ep you from the trouble she had ! ” 

Phoebe’s eyes turned anxiously from the old man to the 
Brand, and around the room. Then she approached the Old 
Bummer, and asked, — 

“ Is it true? Did you ever see m3' mother? ” 

“ Yes, m3' deary ; long years ago.” 

“ Did 3'ou know my father?” 

“ Did I know him ! Methink I did. But come a little 
nigher. The Old Gentleman’s eyes grow dim, with looking 


THE BRAND FALLS IN LOVE. 301 ) 

at 3'OU, and thinking of her as is fled and gone. Thejr be 
growing dimmer, lassie ; won’t 3"ou come a little nigher?” 

Phoebe could not refuse. She came quite close, with both 
hands pressed to her heart. The excited but watchful Brand 
moved up to her side, without taking his e3^es off the Old 
Bummer’s face. 

“Wotis it, Mr. Flinte3"e?” he asked, in a trembling, 
troubled voice. “ Has something struck you, like a wision 
or ghost ? ” 

But the question was unnoticed. 

‘‘So 3^ou called him Jackey, did 3^ou?” resumed Mr. 
Flinteye. ' 

“Yes, sir,” murmured Phoebe. 

“ But he had full suits o’ warious names,” interposed the 
Brand. “ Firebrand, Child o’ Satan, an’ such like sweet, 
ones.” 

The Old Bummer paid no heed. “ You was right, my 
dear3%” said he. “It’s the name we gave him, — me and 
her as is long fled and gone.” 

Phoebe could scarcel3" stand. 

“And 3’ou loved him?” pursued the old man. “Didn’t 
you say you loved him, when ye was schoolmates together?” 

Unable to speak, and with all her faculties benumbed by 
one overpowering thought, Phoebe bowed assent. 

“ Well, 3"ou was right to love him,” said Mr. Flinteye. 
“ Children ! by God’s living truth, ye are brother and sister.’* 

“And3^ou?” cried Phoebe, supporting her quaking form 
by the bed. “ And you?” 

' “ My deaiy. I’m coming to that,” the old man gently re- 
plied. “The husband of that Phoebe long fled and gone; 
— the father of this her living picture what she left ; — yes, 
lassie, that shipwrecked man is none but this Old Gentleman ! ” 

Phoebe shrank away in dismay. Her father and her 
brother ! And a home like that ! She leaned against the 
grating of the window and covered her face. But the Brand, 
who had stood perfectly dumb, caught his breath with a sob, 
and in a low voice of ecstasy’ exclaimed, — 

“ 0 -h ! O-h! how gorgeous gay ! ” 

“ It’s God’s truth,” said Flinteye. “ You are my own son 
Jack!” 

“ What a thing to have a payrunt 1 ” exclaimed the Brand, 


370 


A rouyo DISCIPLE. 


almost bewildered by the thought ; “ that is, for one as never 
had any afore. How singular you feel to find 3’ou’ve got one ! 
But, gayer yet, to find ^^our little angel is your sister ; to 
know 3"ou’ve got a right to love her, an’ nobody can’t block 
}’Ou off" Mr. Fiinteye, I avvluz knowed I wos like 3’ou. The 
first time I seen you I said 3’ou wos a gro wed-up Brand. I 
awluz did love Phoebe, like she wos my^ sister ; but, y^ou see, 
I had been trained to feel so terrible mean ; I kep’ thinking a 
child o’ Satan wosn’t no corap’ny for angels. But she never 
knowed how I sneaked it through the woods, to get one more 
sight at the only one as ever loved me ; nor how I layed be- 
hind the fence an’ seen her p’inting to the fire, afore I tramped. 
Oh, Phoebe ! how good it is to see you here ! If God sent 
me. He sent you, too. ’Twos the brightest thing He could 
think of ; an’ He’s rigged it right. The only trouble is, it’s 
all too gay to last.” 

These words touched a new chord in Phoebe’s bosom. “He 
sent you, too,” echoed in her ears, like the voice of some mys- 
terious monitor within, and to its solemn command her impul- 
sive heart responded. Henceforth her path was clear — to 
brighten that dark home, and to raise those two from the 
depths. She sat down by the old man’s side, and sought for 
the features which she had often imagined. 

“ A rickety' structure you’ve found, lassie,” said Fiinteye ; 
“ but give him time to mend! Ah I little birdie, you don’t 
know the good y^ou’ll do, nor what’s in store for you. Stick 
to your Old Gentleman, deary, and don’t you give him up ! 
Pipes the queiy, why? Chimes the answer, he’ll build you a 
shining fortune, y^et. You wouldn’t leave me, would y^ou?” 

Phoebe laid her hand on his, but could not reply. 

“ We’ll find some little comforts for you,” continued Mr. 
Flintey’e, “ and begin ’em with number one.” 

From a hidden pocket he brought forth a packet of tough, 
time-worn leather. Opening this, he disclosed another in 
better preservation, and this, unrolled, revealed a miniature, 
— a relic of prosperous days. The first glance showed Phoebe 
that it was a likeness of her mother, so close was the resem- 
blance to herself. 

“ It’s yours, deary,” said Fiinteye. “ ’Twould do for either 
y^ou or her.” 

It was, indeed, a beautiful picture. With a throbbing 


MU. FLINTEYE PLAY'S IlIS FINANCIAL CARD- 371 


heart Phoebe held it to the light, and the Brand ran up to her 
side. But, as he stopped, his face turned white, while, un- 
observed by Phoebe, he made a sudden signal to the Old 
Bummer. 

“Now I expect she is wery tired,” he said, in a strange, 
unnatural tone; “so. I’m going to bunk in. Good-night, 
Phoebe ! It’s just the time to put in a couple more for me.” 

With that, he left the room. His keen ear had detected a 
sound, unheard by either of the others, and he knew that 
Gridly w^as at the door of the Clover-Leaf. 

Flinte 3 ’e stepped up to Phoebe and kissed her cheek. 
“ Now*go to sleep,” said he, “and to-morrow there’s other 
comforts to come. Nobod}' can harm you, for the Old Gen- 
tleman himself will keep you safe. Sometimes we have nois}' 
nights round here, and so 3 ’ou won’’t be nervous if 3 'ou hear 
anything. P’obably ’twill be nothing but Old Jerry, spring- 
ing his trap on his most unmityugated bird.” 

With that soothing but enigmatical speech, Mr. Flinteye 
closed the door and followed his son. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

MR. FLINTEYE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 

The Brand was waiting in the back room. 

“ Rat-tat 1” sounded Gridly at the entrance. Flinteye 
closed the door at the bottom of the stairs, as well as that 
which led into Pheebe’s room, to prevent any noise reaching 
her ears. The Brand spoke fast and earnestly. 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” said he, “ I’ve awluz went square with 
3 *GU , — let me tackle the Wampire ! ” 

“Bubber!” the other hastily replied, “here fork two 
branches. First, for to-night you’ll call me Mr. Flinteye ; 
but on the halshon morrow the Old Gentleman forever 
abrogates that name. His last plant is raised, and hence- 
for’ard he trains his little old brain on finance. Branch 
second. Never you fret about the Vampire! There’s two 
on his trail as are adyuquate to their bird, — Mr. Flinteye 
and Old Jerry. Leave him to Mr. Flinteye, Bubber, and 


372 


A rOUiYO DISCIPLE. 


likeways to the ven3' urable Jeremiah ! Right soon shall 3'ou 
see your parent play his financial card.’^ 

“Rat-tat! Rat-tat!” struck the sharp summons again. 
“ Rat-tat ! ” 

“ Open her up ! ” commanded Flinteye. 

The Brand darted to the door, and admitted Gridly. The 
Old Bummer’s countenance beamed with mock hospitalit3^ 

“ Ah ! walk in, Mr. Gridl3%” he exclaimed ; “ walk into 
my humble domyucil ! Never was 3’ou more welcome.” 

“ Like the song sa3"s,” audibly sang the Brand, — 

“ ‘ Will you, will you, 

Will you, will you. 

Walk in, Mr. Fly?’” 

“ A humble dom3mcil, prehaps,” continued Mr. Flinte3'e ; 
“ but still a — ” 

“ What’s the matter with you9^* struck in Gridly, glaring 
at the Brand. “ You’re a cheeky young devil. A dose of 
strap-oil is what you want. Never mind about the domicil, 
Flintey’e ! How’s the little boarder? Over the drug 3'et?” 

“ Oh,, middling, Mr. Gridly^ just about middling,” returned 
Flinteye. “ Not all over it yet ; but coming round quite 
encouraging. Set down till I mix one for you ! ” 

Gridly took a seat near the table with the remark, — 

“You don’t object to lodging a vampire, I suppose?” and 
treated himself to a vile hiss. 

“Mr. Gridly,” returned Flinteye, “you’ve heard tell of 
men as never forget a promise. Such may be rare birds. 
Grant they be ! Still, they^’re a fowl as occasionally^ do ex- 
ist, — here and there one ; and Mr. Flinteye claims to belong 
to that there species of the feathered tribe. Now stalks the 
queiy, how do that trench on the present main ? Why, Mr. 
Flinteye once promised he’d stow you in a lodging fit for the 
king o’ the vampires. Hence, I hurl it down for a certingty', 
and anchor it there, you’ll be lodged as befits a vampire king. 
There, now, are two handsome ones ; let ’em stand and 
mull.” 

Mr. Flinteye placed the twin beauties on the table and sat 
down opposite his guest. 

“ Can’t stop to gabble,” said Gridly, with another detest- 


MR. FTANTEYE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 878 


able hiss. Tol-lol tired and sleepy, you know, — in a hurry 
to get to my lodgings.” 

‘‘ Cerlingly you be,” assented the other, with a compre- 
hensive wink. “But don’t you worry! Your lodgings is 
ready, and you’re sure to reach ’em in time. ’Twon’t do no 
harm to set awhile, and warm your interior, in case you 
might be took with a sudding chili as the hour drags.” 

“ A chill ! He-he ! ” ejaculated Gridly. “ Not much dan- 
ger of any chill to-night; and, if there was, I guess I know 
a place up-stairs to get warm. But it’s a costly motter, 
Flinteye, and I’m d — d if I don’t get my pay out of it.” 

“Just so to a puncture,” chimed in Flinteye. “It be 
rather a costly business, I dare say, and, what with various 
new sprouts as may shoot up, prehaps it will cost 3^011 more’n 
you count on. But you’re rich and can stand it. Was I to 
hazard my opinion, I should say’ you’ve got a hundred thou- 
sand in your owm house; — methink them was the figgers. 
Live out West now', don’t you?” 

“Yes,” returned Gridly, “that’s where my’ den is now. 
I’m here only for a couple of months.” 

“ See what a thing it is,” exclaimed Flinteye, “ to have a . 
hundred thousand in your ow'u safe ! How it props a man I 
How it carries him booming along 1 How it backs him on 
Old Jerry’s tactics I A exceeding good thing it is to have 
in the house. Better, on the whole, than a snib, I should 
say. Got any statues in your house? They’re the rag- 
ing fashion, I hear. I’ve got a small one myself, if you’d 
like to invest. A neat little fabric it is, and just the article 
for you, Mr. Gridly.” 

‘ ‘ A statue ! ” exclaimed Gridly\ ‘ ‘ What the d — 1 are 
y’ou doing with a statue? Going to set it in the window, to 
draw custom for gin? Better get a picture of some actress.” 

“ Now, don’t flare up so scornful ! ” expostulated Flinteye. 

“ I’ll do a better thing with it; I’ll sell it. That’s what I 
got it for, — to speculate onto it. It’s a cheery’ little image, 
Mr. Gridly. Wait till you’ve got your ey^e on it, and me- 
think you’ll say it’s a great speculation for Mr. Flinteye.” 

“Oh, d — n your trash!” cried Gridly. “Come, drink 
your rum ! ” 

“ Don't run down that statue ; don’t run it down ! ” re- 
monstrated Flinteye. “ You may want to buy it, y’et. But 
y’ou must see it, afore you can value it correct.” . 


374 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


The Old Bummer now proceeded to the cellar, while his 
visitor sipped his toddy, and the Brand stood by the counter, 
his hatred of Gridly subdued for the moment by the fever- 
ish curiosity with which he had witnessed Flinteye’s singular 
demeanor and listened to his incomprehensible language. 
Presenth^ the proprietor’s returning footsteps were heard 
accompanied by a peculiar noise. 

“How she rattles!” remarked the Brand. “He might 
ruin it, — so long without a reg’lar. He might shake it to 
flinders.” 

The Old Bummer approached swiftly, with a skeleton 
dodging about in his hands, and hung it deftly upon a hook 
suspended from the ceiling. 

“By the hol}^ 6rwm vociferated the enthusiastic Brand. 
“ Now., Mr. Flinteye, Pm a-tumbling to 3’our little olio.” 

Gridl^^ pushed back his chair with a look of blank horror. 
But Flinteye set the skeleton swinging, and took his seat. 

“ There ! ” said he, with a tone of fond ownership. “ There 
is Mr. Flinteye’s latest speculation. There's a statue for 
you, ready-made to hand. Run your ej^e over it ! ” 

“ How she sways ! ” cried the Brand, apparently delighted 
at sight of the rapid motion. “ Oh, see her go ! ” 

“ IRibber Jack! batten down the hatches!” commanded 
Flinte3'e. “I don’t want no strangers in. They might 
sp’ile the bargain.” 

The Brand locked the door and kept the key. He then 
stationed himself near the skeleton, with both hands thrust 
into his pockets nearl3^ to the elbows, and surveyed it like a 
connoisseur. Gridly uttered not a word. 

“ There !” resumed Flinte3^e. “You see a statue preem- 
yunently fit to grace a vampire dwelling. Can chiseled 
marble beat it?” 

Click! Click!" clucked the Brand. “Them’s her 
knee-pans! 1 know ’em by the sound. Click! Click!" 

“Take awa3^ the dev’lish thing!” screamed Gridly. 
“ Take it away !" 

“ Clink! Clink!" echoed the Brand. “ Hear them talons 
jingle? Clink! Clink!" 

“Go easy, Mr. Gridly!” said Flinteye. “What’s the 
use o’ flaring up at that there merchandise? What’s the 
good o’ giving it a bad name ? It’s a innocent little statue, 


MR. FLINT EVE PLAYS If IS FINANCIAL CARD. 


— do let it vibrate in peace ! Maybe, in times fled and gone 
it never had no comfort at all. So, let it take its little 
swing ! But why do Mr. Flinteye call it the thing for a 
vampire’s dwelling? Why, the vampire is a exceeding tough 
bird and that’s a surpassing rough statue ; — rough matches 
tough. Buds the query, be there any other reason? Booms 
the answer, 3'es, there be. The vampire is a bird what pre3's 
on the human race. ConsequenUy, the race is down on that 
sort of fowl. The human race, Mr. Gridly, is a mortal foe 
to the vampire and, wherever it comes across him, it pounces 
on him and sends him to his long home. Hence, the bird is 
liable, any fleeting moment, to be pounced onto and sent 
there. Therefore ought he alwa3’s to be fitted out with a 
reminder o/his long home. Folly out the branch, and dwell 
onto it, with a logical eye ! Meanwhile, glide the other eye 
over our small statue, and own up it’s just the Agger to 
embellish the festive halls of tlie ro3’al vampire ! ” 

Mr. Flinte3’e ceased his flow of words to give the skeleton 
another impulse. 

“ Look how her fins fly ! ” cried the Brand. “ How ga}' 
they work ! Not to dip in, but I bet she wos on the spar, 
once. When she flips back, down goes her left, like she wos 
fending off one in the ribs. When she dives for’ard, up 
jumps her right, like she wos putting in the auctioneer. 
Clickerty-click ! Oh, noia we go!” 

A fearful foreboding settled on Gridly’s heart, and its 
shadow lurked in his e3’es. 

“How kind o’ easy she sails back an’ for’ard,” continued 
the Brand. “I tell 3’ou wot she makes me think of, — a 
cove on the gallers ! ” 

“Look- here, Flinte3^e I ” cried Gridly. “That d— d 
thing ain’t over-and-above pleasant company, and — ” 

“ Only a cove on the gallers wouldn’t take it so easy,” 
pursued' the positive Brand. “ I bet you he’d wring round, 
like he wos in awful mis’ry, an’ try the hop-game, to ease 
the rope off his neck.” 

Gridly clutched his glass with a shaking hand, and poured 
the liquor down his throat. 

“That’s right,” said Flinte3m. “ Sperrits is the fluid to 
warm a man’s interior, and a great article to cheer his heart 
when anything uncommon weighty sinks it down. But, run 


37G 


A YOl/yG DISCIPLE. 


your 63*6 over that there little specimen ! Don’t shy at it ! 
Nothing to wax nervous about, be it? Now take this argu- 
ment. Was you to invest, you’d have a statue as was once 
a anyumated frame; clothed with — well, was I to hazard 
my opinion, I should say mostly with skin and calico, — and 
inhabited by a little, living soul ; — prehaps one as once trod 
this veiT street. Now what do 3^ou say? Don’t 3'ou warm 
to the trade, a trifle? Chimes the queiy, be it destined ever 
to adorn the Vampire’s nest?” 

Gridty’s face was distorted. His hands worked nervously 
at his knees, and his ferret eyes looked as though the3" would 
pierce Flinte3’e’s heart. 

“Now, don’t say no to your friend,” the latter mildly* 
urged; “ refuse his little statue, what he pared and 
p>'epared expressly for y^ou ! Think what labor was spent 
on the job ! Consider how ymur friend racked his brain ; 
how he toiled through the stilly night ; how he lifted that 
body out of its not very long home ; how he brought it all 
the way from Greenwood ; how he set the medyucal men to 
work on it ; how he j’inted the various parts together. Let 
your brain absorb them branches, mine friend ; let her absorb ! 
Then say* you won’t buy*, if y*ou have the heart to say it ! ” 

A ghastly pallor overspread Gridly’s face. His lips turned 
white and writhed in spasms. Hardly knowing what he did, 
he rose and stepped towards the stairs. 

“ Come, Flintey’e,” said he, in a sickly voice, “ we’ve had 
enough nonsense. Quit your pranks and ’tend to business, 
as per contract.” 

Not that he cared any longer about the affair that had 
brought him to the Clover-Leaf, but, once alone, up-stairs, 
escape might be found by the roof, and flight begun to some 
distant retreat. 

“What I you ain’t going up, be you?” inquired the Old 
Bummer. “ That is, in your present frame o’ mind you ain’t, 
be you?” 

“Yes,” faltered Gridly, “and, when I come down, you 
take the balance of your cash.” 

“ You don’t say so ! ” exclaimed the other. “ How prompt 
a bird ! ” 

Gridly took another step, but Flinteye laid a hand on his 
arm, with a look that made him shiver. 


MR. FLINT EYE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 377 


“ I wouldn’t if I was you,” said Fliuteye, in a forced, 
unnatural tone that made the Brand stare. “ That is, I 
don’t think I would. I’ve knowed vampires upset, going upr- 
stairs, — upset so dreadful bad they never got up again. 
Prehaps you remember I once, promised to take that little 
bird into my cage and keep her safe. Well, I’ve took her in, 
and now, you notice, I keep her safe. Mr. Vampire, s/ie’s 
my own blessed daughter ! ” 

Your daughter ! ” gasped Gridly ; and he sank into his 
chair. 

“ Rubber ! bring that jug ! ” commanded Flinteye. 

“ I know wot it looks like,” cried the Brand, elate with 
fresh discovery, as he placed the glass jar on the table. 
“Leather! Leather 1 , Who’d ever know ’twos the Snib’s 
stummik ?” 

Gridly looked at Flinteye with the face of a corpse. His 
heart sank within him, and a shudder swept through him, 
from head to foot. 

“What be it, Mr. Gridly.?” inquired Flinte3^e, in a tone 
of friendly concern. “ Chills round the heart? Take' some- 
thing hot, mine friend I Do, for 3’our own Flinte3’e’s sake, 
try something hot ! ” 

No answer came from Gridl3'’s bloodless lips. His schem- 
ing brain was well-nigh paralyzed. But Flinteye refilled his 
glass, while he remarked : — 

“ It do beat all how them interior chills will grow on a 
man. Be that one clenching tight, Mr. Gridl3Y Be it 
clenching onto 3’our vitals?” 

“See him sweat!” yawped the Brand. “Look at it 
ripple down his temples ! Shall I fan him, Mr. Flinteye?” 

“ No, my Rubber,” was the gentle answer. “ Let one fan 
him as, no doubt, often done it in days long fied ! Let his 
little statue fan him I ” 

Flinteye started the skeleton anew, and a cold wave smote 
Gridiy’s cheek, each time it shot past. 

“ Clickety-click ! ” vociferated the Brand. “ How gay she 
tears through the air ! ” 

“ I have knowed drugs found in those sort of specimens,” 
said .Flinteye ; “ a genume article, Mr. Gridl3% — look at 
the seal ! None genume without the signature in the wax. 
Come, what say 3^ou? Will you buy my little statue and my 
small jug? ” 


378 


A YOUNG VlSCirLE. 


“ Like the song says/’ trilled the Brand, — 

“ ‘ Come buy my humble ditty, 

As from tavern to tavern I steer.’*’ 


“ Speak up, Mr. Gridly,” resumed Flinte3^e, in an encour- 
aging tone. “Speak out, now, like a little man, and say 
how much them goods are worth to 

The expression of Gridly’s face was frightful. His brazen 
lips had lost their shape, and seemed melting into paste. His 
iron tougue had grown weak and flabb}’. 

“ Flinteye,” he croaked, “ 3’ou’ve got a good thing, and 
3’ou know it. Not to beat round the bush. I’ll take them 
snibs, if the price suits. How much?” 

“ Let me see ! ” said Flintey^e, riveting his fier3’’ eyes on the 
others drab face. “The main question is, whether to dis- 
pose of ’em to the king o’ the vampires, or the king o’ tlie 
cops. Both them monarchs wants ’em, but friendship kicks 
the beam, — I give the choice to the vampire king. Now 
coos the queiy, how much be the3" worth? And caws the 
answer, they rake your pileN 

“ Look at it dripple cried the Brand. “See his 

lips ! how gay they work ! ” 

Again Gridly essayed to speak, but 01113^ croaked : — 

“ Halves, Flintey'e ! halves ! I’ll go you halves.” 

“ M3" answer is short,” replied the other, “ but tothep’int. 
It’s wholes.” 

There was silence a moment, unbroken save by the creak- 
ing skeleton. Then Flinteye rose. 

“ Now, Mr. Vampire,” said he, “3^011 see the spot you are 
in. Along with your own devilish heart, and Old deny prod- 
ding 3'ou on, you’ve been going at dreadful speed of late. 
Didn’t I tell you I’d knowed folks upset, going too rapid. 
See now where 3’our Old Jeriy’s flung 3^011 down ! Look how 
he’s tangled you in his net ! Frehaps 3"ou think Mr. Flinte3'e 
will let up. Did you mean to relent to m3" Phoebe? Did 
3’ou let up when 3^0111’ poor Suib turned her e3’es to 3"our’n 
with that there grateful look, and knowed how hard you was 
trying to float her over? Mr. Vampire, set it down for a sure 
thing, and stamp it there, you’ll pay the price, or — ” 

“ Or what ? ” faltered Gridly, with a feeble eflbrt at defiance. 


MR. FLINTEVE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 379 


Flinteye took one step forward, noosed the cord around the 
skeleton’s neck, and set it spinning. 

“ Here’s what!” said he, with one finger pointing at the 
whirling figure. 

How terrible steady she laughs!*^ remarked the Brand. 
“ Making up for lost time, I bet ; or, p’r’aps she calls it a 
tall joke on the Wampire. Look at him wink with his 
mouth ! ” 

Gridly’s fangs grated as though grinding some brittle 
metal, and his right hand closed as upon the handle of a 
dagger. The hour and the place were favorable, but the 
weapon was wanting. 

“ Now, we won’t trouble that Western home,” resumed 
Flinteye. “The den up town will do for us. I was up 
there last night, mine friend, and saw you looking over that 
little pack of pictures. Here’s a bag will hold the bundle.” 

Mr. Flinteye hid the skeleton and the jar under the coun- 
ter, and took up a valise. 

“ Come,” said he, “ do you pay the price, or do I hand 37^ou 
over? ” 

The onl3^ answer was the harsh grating of Gridly’s fangs. 

“ Bubber Jack, put on 3’our hat and open up the hatches 1 ” 
commanded Flinte3^e. The Brand obe3"ed and the door 
swung open. 

“ Now, then,” resumed Flinte3^e, “ one of two things hap- 
pens. Out that door we three start for the Vampire’s nest, 
or in that door comes a cop.” 

Gridly walked out, with Flinte3’e at his side and the Brand 
behind. The latter locked the door. “ Now^, Bubber, foll3^ 
close, and both e3’es out!” he commanded. “If he skips, 
light on him! If he pla3"s an3^ trick, sound for a cop! ” 

Gridly made no repl3^ but moved off, with Flinteye at his 
side and the Brand at his heels. Apparently, Flinteye had 
a subject eas3' to deal wdtli. Quite remarkable wasthedocil- 
it3’^ with which Gridly submitted. But, as he recovered 
from the shock, a new idea had taken shape in his brain, and 
grown into a fixed resolve. His pace quickened. 

“ Rather dumpish weather,” Mr. Flinte3"e would observe to 
his companions whenever the3^ drew near any belated pedes- 
trian ; “I don’t think I ever remember a season exactly like 
it. P’obably we shall have quite a spell of it, yet.” And 


380 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


then, as they passed out of earshot, he would relapse into 
silence. 

“ Not a very talkative company,” he remarked, at length. 
“But prehaps you ain’t in a conversational vein. Maybe 
3'ou’re consulting 3’our Old Jerry, and he’s whispering some 
new tactic. Don’t trust him, Mr. Gridl3^ ! He’s a character 
deceptious as he is aged. Bear in mind, also, Mr. Flinteye 
is up to all your tactics ! ” 

“ Hear him grit his tushes ! ” said the Brand. “ He beats 
a coffee-mill ! ” 

“Let him grit!” returned Flinteye. “You keep both 
e3’es out 1 ” 

Gridly said nothing. 

“ Manv’ a various fowl,” resumed Flinte3’e, “has the Old 
Gentleman hunted in his day, but never afore a vampire. 
Duck, snipe, quail, etc., etc., to repletion and re-repletion, 
but only one sol3mtary vampire. Da3^ and night has he fol- 
lied on this here present trail, and now the hunt is verging 
onto its end.” 

“ Take care ! ” said the wary Brand. “ It might turn out 
the Wampire is hunting of the Old Gen’leman.” 

“ Let him try it ! ” returned Flinteye. 

Gridly maintained the same sullen silence, but was, in 
fact, more eager than reluctant ; and at last they crossed 
his threshold. 

“ Bubber, strike the light!” commanded Flinte3"e. The 
Brand lighted the gas in the hall. Gridly led the wa3' into 
the parlor, where the Brand again made a light. 

Flinte3^e looked around with a complacent air. “ See, 
now,” said he, “ how nice the Vampire’s feathered his nest 
for his mate ! But, methink she’ll never reach it.” 

“ Wait here ! ” said Gridh^ “ I’ll bring it.” 

“Now go easy!” returned Flinteye. “You may heard 
tell of hunters as make it a rule, when once they’ve got their 
e3'e on a Vampire, never to let him out o’ sight till they’ve 
fetched him down. Mr. Flinteye is one of those kind. Was 
the vampire to fly out, alone, p’obably he would flit back, 
with something in his claw as would end the Old Gentleman 
on the spot, and cutoff his Bubber in the heat of 3"outhful 
blood. Mr. Flinte3’e will keep near 3"ou.” 

Gridly made no objection, but led the way to a bedroom 


MR. FLINT EYE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 381 


behind the parlor, and there, also, the Brand lighted a jet of 
gas. An iron safe occupied one corner, and this Gridly 
opened. 

“ Oh, there they be ! ” exclaimed Flinte^^e, essa3ing a pla^’- 
ful tone of childish delight ; “ bring ’em out ! ” 

Gridly lifted a package of bonds. 

“ Coupons ! ” remarked Flinte^^e. “ Just like cash.” 

“ I’m beat and I knock under,” clanked Gridlj^, whose 
tongue had regained its metallic ring. “ Now we’ll go. 
When I get m3’ hands on them snibs will be time enough to 
get yours on the funds. I give in, and bu3^ ’em at the 
price.” 

“Now and then,” returned the other, “you may noticed 
a man as gets his hands on the funds the speediest he can. 
Mr. Flinteye heads that tribe. Hand it out, now, down on 
the finger-nail ! That’s the only reliable nail, Mr. Gridly, in 
financial mains.” 

Gridly’ put the package in the other’s hands who thrust 
it into his valise. 

“That’s right,” said Flintey’e, as he secured the booty. 
“ Some birds have the sense to lay still when they’re fetched 
down, but others will flutter and kick till a twist is put onto 
their necks. Much wiser are the former.” 

Gridly lifted his hand to his pocket for a handkerchief, 
but the Old Bummer laid a Anger on his arm. 

“ Don’t put 3’our hand in there ! ” said he. “ It might grow 
nervous, and fly out that pocket with something as would go 
off accidental. Go through him, Bubber ! See if he’s heeled ! ” 

The Brand felt all over Gridly ’s pockets for a concealed 
weapon, but found none ; and Gridly submitted, muttering, 
“ I’m beat, and I give in.” 

Mr. Flinte3’e now searched the safe, and assured himself 
that no mistake had been made. Gridl3’ was in haste to be 
back at the Clover-Leaf, but masked his design with the 
most sullen demeanor. Under close surveillance, he took an 
umbrella from a closet, and the three started on their return. 
They marched in the same order as before, Flinteye occa- 
sion all3’ uttering a w’ord of caution against future tactics, 
the Brand keeping vigilant watch at their heels, and Gridly 
intent upon a plan to recover his plunder, and to silence for- 
ever the two witnesses. Old Jerry’s counsels were full of 




A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


promise. Vain had been the Brand’s search, for in his 
hand Gridly now carried the instrument for his purpose, and 
with it he arrived at the place of all others he would have 
chosen, — the bar-room of the Clover-Leaf. To assure him- 
self of his success, Fliute3 e opened his valise, spread its con- 
tents on the table, and inspected them. 

“One more friendl>’ nip afore we part,” said he. “ Bub- 
ber, mix two snorters ! ” 

The Brand began his task, and Gridh- seated himself b^" 
Flinte^-e’s side as if to watch the counting of the bonds. 
Now or never was the Vampire’s time. His left arm 
rested on the table, beneath which slanted the umbrella, 
grasped between his knees, his right hand upon its handle. 
The tinkling glass told that the Brand was bus3^ Gridly’s 
lips had recovered their brazen hardness, and now shut fast. 
He strung his sinews, while his right hand closed lound the 
handle of the umbrella, nerving himself for the latest enter- 
prise born of Old Jerr3'’s counsels. Perhaps that cunning 
but treacherous adviser was skilled in optics, and had 
arranged this scene with regard to angles of incidence and 
reflection. At an3^ rate, a ra3^ from the lamp that fell upon 
a point under the table shot back to the Brand, and his 
watchful e3’e caught its flash. The umbrella-stick was 
opening, like a sword-cane. Gridly was drawing the pol- 
ished blade. That bright flash grew to a stead3’, length- 
ening gleam. The Brand clutched a decanter while he 
stirred the liquor more noisily. He saw the glittering steel 
laid bare, and gliding swiftWup along Flinte3'e’s back, seek- 
ing a vital place. Was that sight a signal from Old Jerry 
for him to posture? At all events, he bent his knees sud- 
denly and his body sloped backward, poised upon the right 
leg. His left arm rose, flexed and rigid as iron, holding 
the clenched fist to the right of his chin, while over his head 
the decanter circled, and for an instant stopped aloft. The 
silence of death prevailed. As Gridly's hand drew back for 
the mortal stroke, the Brand hurled the heav3' missile with 
unerring aim. The knife flew from the assassin’s hand. 
Forward he dropped, over the table, then slid down to the 
floor among a thousand clinking fragments ; and, simulta- 
neously with the crash, burst forth the Brand’s shrill cry : — 

“ Down he goes ! A wampire plant ! A ivampire plant ! ” 


MR. FLINT EYE PLAYS HIS FINANCIAL CARD. 383 


Flinteye leaped to his feet, as at a stroke of lightning. 

“ Look there ! Look there T' cried the Brand, pointing to 
the knife. “ One second more you’d fled an’ went.” 

For once the Old Bummer’s flaming face grew pale. 

“ A tight squeak for Mr. Flinteye,” he muttered, as he 
picked up ilie weapon. 

Gridly lay perfectly still a moment, then sat up, pressing 
both hands to his head with a vacant stare. But the Brand 
ran round in front of him, crying, — 

“ Shall I give him another? Say ! Shall I? ” 

“No, Bubber, he’s got his dose,” returned Flinte3^e. “ Let 
him rest at that.” 

“ But he ain’t finished” the Brand loudly protested. 
“ lie’ll get over it, and that will be the end of us. Let 
me sting him once more ! ” 

“ Now, see here ! ” cried Flinte3’e, seizing the almost de- 
lirious Brand, “what you talking about? Want to go 
into the murdering business? If that poison weed is sprout- 
ing, just tear it up by the roots, and lose no time ! You’ve 
done right ; but enough.” 

“ He'll get over itfi muttered the boding Brand, “ an’ then 
where will we be? But it’s lucky I seen that picker twinkle. 
Only for that, they wouldn’t been no Mr. Flinteye here to- 
morrow, an’ p’r’aps no Bubber, nor Phoebe, neither.” 

“There won’t be any Mr. Flinteye, anyhow,” declared 
the other, poking with his foot at Gridly. “To-morrow, 
Flinteye, the nighthawk, disappears forever from the scene, 
and then comes on Mr. Young, financier.” 

The Brand danced round his enemy like some dwarfed 
Homeric hero insulting his fallen foe. 

“ How would you like some more? ” he demanded. “ Bad 
medsun, wosn’t it? P’r’aps you’ll try to run another picker 
into my payrunt ; but I bet not. Got the headache? Cam- 
phire’s good.” 

Gridly understood not one word, nor longer recognized the 
place. But he shuddered, as though the figure that con- 
fronted him were some fierce, agile scout from the advan- 
cing host of Old Jerry’s tormenting fiends. The Brand 
stooped and raised one*^ of Gridly’s eyelids. Then he rose 
with a sigh. 

“ ’Twosn’t enough,” said ho. “ His lanterns isn’t glassy.” 


884 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Presently Gridly got np, like an intoxicated man, and sup- 
ported himself by the table. Very indifferent he was, now, 
to whatever might transpire. A simple smile actually ap- 
peared on his repulsive features, and rested there. 

Shall I hand 3 ’ou over?” demanded Flinte^^e, as of some 
wooden image. “ No ; I leave you to 3 'our Old Jerry. I con- 
sider him fully ad^’uquate. Bubber, bag them goods and 
bring ’em here ! ” 

The Brand stuffed the bones and the jar into a bag, and 
brought it to the table. Flinteye hung it over Gridly’s shoul- 
der and started him walking. 

“Now, Mr. Vampire,” said he, as he guided him to the 
door, “your old and valued Flinteye leaves you to your older 
and more valued friend, the ven^mrable Jeremiah. And he 
hazards one small advice, besides : never, hencefor’ard, be 
3 ^ou found a-lingering round Mr. Flintej^e ! ” 

Gridly made no answer, except an idiotic laugh. He tot- 
tered, and reeled, and staggered away with his load, moving 
like an automaton propelled by Flinteye’s will. 

“Oh, wot a night!” exclaimed the Brand. “How fast 
things do turn up ! But Pd ruther have ’em sprinkled 
along. Seems like it wos too gay to last.” 

Mr. Flinte 3 ^e sat down again to compute the winnings of 
his financial card. 

“ I bet you his brains felt awful mixed an’ foggy,” re- 
marked the Brand. “ How kind o’ rattled, an’ limber, he 
toddled away 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

LOST AND FOUND. 

The events narrated in the last few chapters happened early in 
the summer of 1863 — the middle period of the War. Thus 
far the national army had been composed mainly of volunteers, 
but now had come the time when the ranks must be filled up 
by conscription, and on Saturday, the 11th of July, the draft- 
ing of recruits was begun. Although a harsh* measure, it 
was a necessary edict of their chosen rulers to which the 


LOST AND FOUND. 


385 


people, for the most part, submitted with unflinching patriot- 
ism. But in certain precincts of the metropolis, where a 
turbulent class of adopted citizens flourish, the conscription 
had been awaited with muttered threats, and was met with 
open defiance. In those quarters a rising excitement was 
manifest all that day, and at night the dram-shops drove a 
brisk trade ; for Patrick loves the fiery goat’s milk on which 
he was weaned. Incredible, indeed, that such potent milk 
could be supplied by the ‘sportive creature that gambols 
around the garbage-bin, and rears her young in the mud- 
bound shant}^, even though her varied diet be mixed with 
blood}^ tragedians and brutish candidates, ravished from the 
bill-poster’s preserves, and plentifully sauced, as well, with 
heating compounds of typographic art. But Art has created 
a goat of her own, which can subsist on innocuous grains, or 
even on bland molasses, and secrete therefrom a noxious 
liquid. 

Sunday was the 12th, besides, — an anniversaiy when 
Paddy believes himself an object of derision, for then his 
memory is sore with traditions of shillalahs vainly wielded 
in some ancestral shind}', — a day when the red whiskey in 
his veins reaches its periodical boiling point, and his jaun- 
diced eye everywhere discerns the colors of his hereditary 
foe. Accordingly, Paddy was abroad that day, clad in 
his long-tailed, broadcloth, St. Patrick’s-day coat, his best 
fighting-trousers, and his respectable war-vest, with his tall 
battle-hat, all battered and scarred in many a fray, but 
freshly filed by his imperishable sleeve to the lustre of coke. 
His boisterous mate was out, too, with her blatant tongue 
astir, and eke agog were all his lawless cubs. There was 
prospect of turmoil, and, in the air, a scent of plunder. The 
day passed, however, without serious disturbance of the 
peace. On Monday, the drafting of conscripts was resumed. 
Early in the morning there were assemblages of thriftless 
idlers, vagrants, and sturdy beggars, — self-styled working- 
men, — who met in the Twenty-second Ward and moved down 
the western avenues. Through Fort 3 -sixth Street the}' 
streamed eastward, destroying the railway and the telegraph 
at Fourth Avenue, and swarming around the Provost Marshal’s 
office on Third Avenue, where the draft w'us then proceeding. 
The drawing of names was quickly ended. Missiles were 


386 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


liiuied through the windows ; the office was invaded and the 
building soon wrapped in flames. Firemen arrived with their 
engines, but were forced to stand aloof. The superintendent 
of police no sooner appeared than he was set upon and dan- 
gerously beaten. A detachment of policemen charged the 
crowd, but were routed. Three large edifices were burned to 
ashes before the mob started for the enrolling office at Twenty- 
ninth Street and Broadway. There the rest of the day was 
devoted to pillaging a whole block and burning it to the 
ground. The goat’s milk was beginning to ferment and 
Paddy was rather busy displaying his methods and resources 
to his adoptive countr3\ Wider and wider spread the excite- 
ment, but rain fell during the evening, dampening the ardor 
of the mob, and pelting them into their retreats. 

It was the day of Phoebe’s abduction. But her route had 
led through a part of the city as yet undisturbed, and she 
had no hint of the threatened insurrection. Nor had the 
other members of the family an}’’ knowledge thereof, although 
observing signs of unusual commotion in the vicinity of their 
residence. Mr. Babbon stood at the window, gazing down 
through the gathering darkness into the street. 

“ I wonder what keeps her so late,” said he. 

‘‘ Now, John, don’t worry!” replied his wife. “It isn’t 
late. Perhaps she was delayed at the house or had to wait 
for a car; there’s a parade or some sort of procession, and 
very likely the cars are detained. You know it often hap- 
pens.” 

The gentle tone and comforting tenor of the worthy lady’s 
reply w^ere blossoms from her late-planted seeds of forbear- 
ance, and early fruit from the young shoots of kindliness now 
flourishing around the rock of her Christian fortitude. In 
truth she had alarming presentiments, but was unwilling to 
add to her husband’s anxiety. 

“ I must say^ though,” she concluded, “ the cat has been 
acting very strangely ever since Phoebe’s been gone.” 

But, with relaxation of wifely discipline, Mr. Babbon had 
of late developed a new acerbity of temper. 

“ Oh, yes, the catT* he returned, with sarcastic accent. 
“ ‘ Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed, ’ and four times, I 
suppose, ‘ the hedgepig’s whined.’ Something’s sure to 
happen.” 


LOST AND FOUND. 


387 


“ I don’t claim to be well versed in Shakespeare,” Mrs. 
Babbon good-naturedly returned. “ I prefer John Bunyan. 
But our copy is correct, I believe, and, if you’ll consult it, I 
think you’ll find it was only once the hedgepig whined.” 

“According to m3" arithmetic,” said Mr. Babbon, “thrice 
and once make four times.” 

“ Yes, dear, your arithmetic is good,” his wife answered, 
with a little feminine smile of triumph, “ but sometimes 3"OU 
slip on punctuation. You’ve got the cat and the hedgepig 
mixed. ‘ Thrice ’ is a repetition that belongs to the brinded 
cat. I’m sure of it, my dear. ’Twas only once the liedge- 
pig whined.” 

“ Probabl}^ he wasn’t married, then,” returned Mr. Babbon, 
aiming at ungallant revenge for his discomfiture. But the 
shaft glanced unfelt from Mrs. Babbon’s new Christian pano- 
ph". She laughed with thorough good nature, and answered, 
“ I don’t exactlj' know how that was. I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised, though, if he never deserved a mate, and couldn’t find 
a female hedgepig that would have him. Come, don’t let’s 
borrow any more trouble ! If Phoebe were a poor, namby- 
pamby simpleton, I should feel worried indeed ; no, I shouldn’t 
either. Her fate would be clear in that case, and the sooner 
she met it the better. But she’s a practical girl, with com- 
mon sense, taught to 'depend on herself, and not likely to 
lose her wits, I can tell 3^011. When she isn’t punctual to the 
minute, you may be sure there’s some good reason. It 
doesn’t disturb me, in the least.” 

It did disturb her, nevertheless, more than she would ad- 
mit. They sat down to supper, and she poured tlie tea in a 
gushing stream, as though watering plants in danger of witli- 
eriiig around her rock, or as if depletion of the tea-pot 
afforded relief to overstrained nerves. 

“ It’s veiy strange what keeps her so late,” said Mr. Bab- 
bon, glancing again at the clock. “ I do feel uneas3^ I’m 
afraid she’sTost her way.” 

This suggestion made the worthy lady’s stronghold trem- 
ble. A fire-engine thundered past the house, surrounded by 
a yelling mob. 

“Oh, merciful Father!” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon, starting 
with a pang of fright.' “Do you hear those howling de- 
mons ? ” 


388 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“I should think I do,” was Mr. Babbon’s non-committal 
reply, whereb}^ he reserved the privilege of reconsideration, 
in case of expediency, and of finally declaring, “ I thought 
I did, but, upon the whole, I believe I do not.” 

“Well, they have their mission,” said Mrs. Babbon, 
struggling against a tide of unhappy foreboding, but mani- 
festly yielding a little thereto. Mr. Babbon’s suspicions 
turned to Gridly. All his misfortunes had come by that 
man’s hand, and, as he recalled their last interview, Gridly’s 
parting threat recurred to him with terrible significance. 

“ Yes, I fear they have their mission,” repeated Mrs. Bab- 
bon, now evidently alarmed. Mr. Babbon replied vaguelj^ 
so busy was he with his own thoughts, — 

“ No ! have they? ” said he. “ Why, yes, to be sure ! No 
doubt they have.” 

“Do you imagine what may be that mission?” pursued 
Mrs. Babbon. 

“Yes, 3 ^es ; ‘ there’s the rub,”’ her husband mechanically 
answered. “What is that mission? The popular error is, 
it’s to extinguish fires.” 

“ Please don’t jest ! ” she returned. “ I hoped the scourge 
had done its work ; but I don’t know. Perhaps the rod is 
still uplifted, and must fall, and fall, upon this afflicted family 
until ever}" heart is subdued or broken. Oh, merciful 
Heaven ! if that poor, tender orphan should be in the path 
of those howling fiends ! or lost, and wandering alone the 
live-long night, without food or shelter, unprotected in the 
streets of this great Sodom, or finding such protection as the 
dove receives from the falcon of the — ” 

“Of the Andes!” suggested Mr. Babbon, with an eager 
eflfort at a temporary diversion. “ No, Pm wrong, — I be- 
lieve that range is appropriated b}^ the condor. Let me see I 
Where do the falcons resort? ” 

It was really wonderful to see how Mrs. Babbon sup- 
pressed the pungent rejoinder that rose to her lips. 

“There 1” said she, “ I was going to sa\" something impa- 
tient again. Now, dear, hadn’t you better go to that house 
and inquire? It is growing late.” 

“ That’s just what I’m going to do,” returned Mr. Babbon,' 
“ and, if I don’t find her there, I shall go straight to the super- 
intendent of police. I don’t like the looks of the thing at all.” 


LOST AND FOUND. 


389 


He put on his hat and departed. Presently, a quick, firm 
tread sounded on the stairs, and then came an eager knock 
at the door. The next moment a 3mung man sprang in, 
threw his arms round Mrs. Babbon’s neck, and kissed her 
cheek. Love and joy overflowed as she looked proudly up 
at his rudd}^, handsome face, and great, dauntless, black 
e3’es, crying, “ Dan, my son ! Home at last ! 

“ Yes, mother. Pm through. Here’s my sheepskin. 
Where’s Phoebe? — I want her to see it.” 

The gladness died on Mrs. Babbon’s face as suddenly as 
it was born. 

“Heaven only knows,” she sighed, “where that poor lost 
child is now ! Your father has gone to search for her. But 
I fear the rod is uplifted to smite this family to the dust.” 

Dan’s joyful smile gave way to a look of intense anxiet3". 
In a voice of troubled impetuosity, he demanded, — 

“ Mother, what has happened? Tell me quick ! ” 

As his mother told of Phoebe’s errand and protracted 
absence, the color fled even from his lips. 

“Mother! I must find Phoebe,” he cried, and away he 
dashed. First, with all speed, to the house where she had 
called. There he learned only that she had left early in the 
evening, and that his father had preceded him and gone. 
Next, to the head-quarters of police, with failing hope. In- 
quiring his way from time to time, he pushed rapidl3^ on. 
No policemen were to be seen on their customary rounds. 
But there were excited groups around the doors of man3^ 
drinking-places, loudly discussing some topic with angry 
gesticulations. Through the streets roved villainous-looking 
gangs, while the few respectable persons to be met were 
hurrying away from the insults and threats hurled at them 
by the lawless vagabonds infesting every corner. A stranger, 
and almost desperate with his own troubles, Dan understood 
nothing of these ominous signs ; but he shuddered to think 
of Phoebe wandering alone through scenes like those, and 
made all haste to the head-quarters of police. The building 
and its approaches were crowded with policemen. Dan 
found it impossible to enter or even to reach the door. But 
he forced his way into the throng, until an officer seized him 
and demanded to know his business. He explained his 
errand, and learned that a 3’oung girl, answering to Phoebe’s 


390 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


description, had been attacked in Houston Street that even- 
ing and kidnaped, but that no attention had been given to 
the affair because of more serious matters on hand. The 
officer added that the superintendent was too bus>^to be seen, 
and that no steps could be taken to trace tlie young girl until 
those same serious matters should be settled. In vain Dan 
begged. The policeman roughly admonished him to go 
home, affirming that broken heads would be plentiful before 
morning, and advising him to take his own to a place of 
safet3^ Despairing of help, he made his way out of the 
crowd and turned homeward. Tears of passionate grief 
sprang into his e3"es and were dashed away. Reproaches 
burst from his lips at thought of the carelessness that had 
permitted Phoebe to go so far alone ; and, at times, to his 
excited imagination it seemed as if he could hear her voice 
faintly calling, “Oh, Dan! come quick!” He thought of 
the hard-fought battle with Bevor, and what would he not 
have given to face the danger which, he felt sure, was now 
confronting Phoebe, and grapple with it as he had met and 
overcome that one in his bo3ffiood. Every careless word, 
each act of neglect, came back to memory armed with a sharp^ 
sting. His former jests and raillery now filled him with 
remorse. Unwittingly he passed through crowds of brawlers 
and traversed unknown streets. Nearly distracted he reached 
home. His father had returned, without intelligence of 
Phoebe, except what he himself had learned, and had started 
out again for Houston Street. Thither he, too, must awa3". 
But, suddenly, the door was pushed open without ceremony, 
and a stranger entered. It was Pinche3". Already had the 
gaming-table stripped him of his infamous wages, and he had 
come to betra3" his fellow scamp for another reward. He 
stared full in Dan’s face, and started as he recognized his 
former schoolmate. Pulling his hat down over his e3ms, he 
abruptl3" asked, — 

“ How much do 3’ou want to find her, — how much, in dol- 
lars and cents 9 ” 

Dan's heart bounded with sudden hope. 

“Come, how much will you ’stake me?” demanded 
Pinchey. 

Dan pulled his watch and his purse from his pocket. “All 
I have and all I can raise,” he cried. “ If you know where 


LOST AND FOUND. 


T)!)! 


she is, show me the place ! These to begin with, and more 
afterwards.” 

“ Come on ! ” said Pinche^", and they started. 

“ I seen a 3^oung lad}" made off with to-night,” continued 
Piuchey. “ Somebody said she lived here, and her name was 
Phoebe Young.” 

Dan clutched the arm of his guide and hurried on, with a 
beating heart. Far from suspecting that his companion was 
Pinchey, and the kidnaper himself, he could have embraced 
him for gratitude. Hope returned, and with it a longing 
expectation of meeting some peril on Phoebe’s behalf and in 
her presence. Pinchey would give but little explanation, and 
walked on, for the most part, in silence. The distance was 
long, and they were compelled to go afoot, — neither street- 
cars nor stages were running, nor was a hack to be seen. 
For some reason, the public conveyances all seemed to have 
hid themselves, as if they had scented danger. The nights 
were near their shortest, and when the twain at length stopped 
before the Clover-Leaf, it was not far from morning. 

“ You’ll find her in there,” said Pinchey. “ Come, dish it 
out, now I ” 

Dan handed over the promised reward. 

“ All right,” said Pinchey ; “ see you again, sometime, for 
another stake. So long!” and away he sped. The next 
instant Dan tried the door. By chance, it was unlocked, and 
lie rushed in. Mr. Flinteye sat at the table, bending over 
his booty, and the Brand lay stretched upon the counter, 
asleep. The former hastily thrust the bonds into his valise, 
and, surveying the intruder with a doubtful eye, called out, 
sharply : — 

“ Now, then, what do yov want, in the Clover-Leaf?” 

Dan sprang forward with flashing eyes, and, clutching the 
old man by the collar, pinioned him to his chair. “I want 
Miss Phoebe Young,” he cried, in a quick, determined tone 
that brooked no delay. 

“ Now, go easy ! ” returned the struggling Flinteye, with a 
futile effort to shake off the other’s grasp. ‘‘ Go you dread- 
ful easy I I’ve knowed young fellows most distressedly upset, 
speeding too rapid arter young ladies.” 

Dan shifted his hold to Flinteye’s throat, and shook him as 
though he would snap him asunder, shouting in a furious 
voice : — 


392 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ Old man ! tell me where she is, or I’ll shake the life out 
of you ! ” 

The Brand was roused from his sleep. Leaping from the 
counter, he advanced, a heavy decanter in his right hand, 
measuring the distance with a swift, sure aim. 

“Look, Mr. Flinteye ! ” he cried, “see me rattle him 
down ! ” 

The Old Bummer’s e3^es were for once well out, — pro- 
truding, indeed, beyond previous experience, — suitable 
spheres, perhaps, for a small orrery, representing blue, circu- 
lar, planetary seas, with red rivers tributary thereto, but 
useless just now for purposes of vision. Dan faced around 
without losing his grip. The Brand stopped, still as a statue, 
dumb and staring. A moment he stood like one petrified, 
his knees bent slightly, and the missile poised behind his 
head. Then his arm settled by his side, and the decanter 
fell to the floor, while he softly murmured, — 

“ How stunning gay ! ” 

“ Bubber ! ” squeaked Flinte^^e, “ tackle him ! ” 

But the Brand’s ferocity was quenched. “ Let up on his 
muzzle!” he cried, with singular entreat^", “Ae’s turning 
blackN 

“ Tell me where she is,” shouted Dan, “ or I’ll choke him 
to death 1 ” 

“ Let up then ! ” begged the Brand. “ Quick ! I’ll tell 
you 1 ” 

Dan relaxed his hold. 

“ Phosbe is safe from the Wampire,” said the Brand, “an’ 
from every other cruel bird. She’s asleep, — in this here 
Clower-Leaf.” 

Dan gazed at the speaker in wonder. But the Brand 
advanced and executed a rapid, ecstatic revolution upon one 
heel. Coming to a halt, he cried, in a tone of strange, tri- 
umphant delight : — 

“ Now bet who I be ! ” 

Dan continued gazing at the speaker, but said nothing. 

“ How gay to rig him so I ” pursued the Brand. “ Don’t 
you know me? Don’t you know me ? I’m the Little Bum- 
mer.” 

“ Little Bummer,” replied Dan, “ I’m glad to see you ; but 
I’m not looking for little bummers now. If you know where 


LOST AND FOUND. 


893 - 


Miss Pho0be Young is, you’ll do well to take me there without 
delay.” 

‘‘Oh, Almighty Gum!” ejaculated the jo3*ous Brand. 
“ How rigged he is I Don’t \"ou worry about Phoebe ! She’s 
safe, up-stairs. Cool down, now, an’ bet who I be ! ” 

But Ml’, h'lintej^e, recovering from his throttling, locked 
the door to cut off his assailant’s retreat ; and then advancing, 
with his fists dodging about before his breast, he said, — 

“Now, young fellow, seeing you’ve had 3’our turn at my 
throat, Mr. Flinteye will see what compliments he can give 
you for that same friendly act. You’ve come in by the door, 
and I mean j^ou to skip out by the window.” 

“ Kee’ still, Mr. Flinte3'e!” cried the Brand. “See me 
I’ig him worse yet ! ” 

Coining close to Dan, he laid one hand on the latter’s thigh, 
and said, “ Here’s where he sunk his tushes in ! ” 

But the wrathful Old Bummer, stopping within easy reach, 
and stead3ing himself for an effective blow, called out : — 

“ Never 3’ on mind about tushes! Look to’ards his optic, 
and 3"ou’ll see where Mr. Flinteye sinks his signature in ! ” 

The Brand instantl3’ fasteued upon Flinteye’s arm. “No 
use,” he cried. “ He’d fiddle you down like a streak o’ light- 
ning. But see how gorgeous gay it’s turning out ! ” Ex- 
tending one hand towards Dan to greet him, he continued, in 
a reproachful tone, “ Dan ! 3’ou had ought to know the child 
o’ Satan. ’Twos you an’ me tackled Bewor.” 

Upon the instant Dan knew that Phoebe was safe. He 
grasped the proffered hand, and cried : “ Jtickedo ! Yes, you 
are the Brand ! ” 

’Sh ! ’sli ! ” exclaimed the Brand. “Don’t wake her 
up ! ” 

Then drawing his hand across his glistening eyes, he mur- 
mured, “ How gay I feel ! ” 

“Everybody said 3’OLi were burned to death,” cried Dan. 
“ I thought so, too.” 

“Everybody wos gummed,” replied the Brand. “They 
offen be. My,time wosn’t to come till I had finished wot 1 
wos born for, — not till I’ve tackled the Wampire. P’r’aps 
soon arter, but not afore.” 

“ I was merrily thinking,” remarked Mr. Flinteye, “ the 
Old Gentleman ought to put in at least owe, to wipe away his 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


.‘UJ4 

wounded honor. But lie’ll let it slide, if the 3*oung gentle- 
man was a mate o’ yours in da^’S fled and gone. Young gen- 
tleman, will you please take a seat. ” 

“ No, thank you,” said Dan, boiling over with impatience. 
“ I came here for Miss Phoebe Young, and I propose to see 
her without au}^ more delay.” 

“ Now, there’s no good in opening up the ramping depart- 
ment with Mr. Flinteye,” returned the Old Bummer. “ He 
calls himself the chairman of this here meeting, and the boss 
of this shebang.” 

Off went Dan’s coat like a flash. “ We’ll soon settle this 
business,” said he. “Mind 3murself, old man ! I’m going 
up-stairs.” 

“Dan!” cried the Brand; “don’t, for the Lord’s sake, 
act like a blazing countiy lummox ! I tell 3'Ou she’s all 
right, an’ fast asleep. What business have ymu to go to her 
room, anyhow? The doors are locked, an’ 3’ou couldn’t get 
in, anyway. Do cool off, an’ kee’ still, till she comes 
down ! ” 

Dan reluctantly took a seat, and Mr. Flinte3’c returned to 
his chair, while the Brand balanced himself upon the table. 

“ Now, then,” resumed Mr. Flinteye, “what might your 
business be with m3" daughter Phoebe?” 

“ Your daughter! ” gasped Dan ; “ not her, old man, but 
Phoebe Young, I mean.” 

“ Gayer yet ! ” vociferated the Brand, in delirious delight. 

“ Well, well,” answered Flinte3"e ; “ it’s the same identyii- 
cal lassie I speak of. Still looms and booms the queiy, 
what might be your business with my blessed daughter. 
Miss Phoebe Young?” 

Dan was nearly" frantic. “Old man,” he shouted, “are 
you crazy?” 

“No, 3"oung gentleman,” Flinteym replied. “Prehaps 
a trifle weary round the windpipe, but sensible to the last. 

I give you to know that I am Robert Young, of halshon 
mem’ry, in bodily form ; that our present Phoebe is my own 
blessed daughter, come back to me in my declining {’ears ; 
and that her brother, there, is my own son Jack, trained up 
by Deacon Biggot into the way he ought never to go.” 

As these words fell on Dan’s ears, he doubted not that the 
long-lost father and brother of Phoebe were before him. The 


LOST AND FOUNT). 


395 

revelation came like a frosty blast. She, the incarnation of 
grace and beauty, and these her father and brother ! He was 
sick at heart. 

“ Don’t you know how good an’ kind she wos to me when 
almost everybody roughed it ? ” said the Brand ; “an’ don’t 
you remember how you wanted to sail into me, cos I said I 
loved her, too? You had the inside track, although she wos 
my own sister. But I didn’t know she wos, nor I wouldn’t 
3'et, only for our Old Gen’leman. All the luck I ever struck 
has come from him. When I look back, an’ think how I first 
seen him, rattling his talons so liveh^, an’ his lanterns a- 
coming of it so rummy an’ red — ” 

“Here, here!” interposed Mr. Flinteye. “That little, 
old, idiotic tongue of yours is getting the upper hand again. 
For a brancher-out, I never met your match. Do strap on 
the clamps 1 But still it looms, young gentleman, what 
might be your business with my Phoebe? I’d advise you not 
to flare up so hot and heady, and, like ways, not to trifle ; 
but, if you’ve got anything to say, say it ! ” 

The barriers of pride in Dan’s impetuous heart were not 
long in 3ielding. 

“ My business?” he cried. “ To rescue her ; and then — ” 
He hesitated, evidently embarrassed, and at loss for a 
choice of words. 

“ Plump it out, bold and free ! ” said Mr. Flinte3’e. “ But 
keep clear of the trifling department ! ” 

“ The rest of it was,” stammered Dan, — “ well, the rest 
of it — ask her, and she’ll tell 3^011 the daisies know.” 

“ They’re a flower,” remarked Mr. Flinteye, “ as p’obably 
doesn’t repeat everything they hear, nor tell all they see.” 

“ Everybody knowed tliey’d fell wery deep in love,” inter- 
posed the Brand. “ He wos the one as awluz took her part. 
He warmed big Pinchey, till he went down on his bones an’ 
begged her parding, an’ ’twos him sent Bewor off the hooks. 
Once I seen him laid for dead, an’ her a-crying like her heart 
wos split. Oh! I wish’t it wosn’t quite so gay. Now, a 
soap-bubble is a mighty gorgeous thing, but how quick it’s 
gone! — too gay, 3’ou see, to last.” 

“Look out, Bubber!” cried Mr. Flinteye. “If a strap 
won’t bold, you’d better take a chain. Young gentleman, 
you’re welcome to the Glover-Leaf. Methink I see how the 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 




land lays, and how the wind blows. I say you’re welcome 
in the Clover-Leaf, and welcome to aspire to my Phoebe’s 
company, bearing in mind certing conditions. First, that she 
finds it agreeable ; and, second, that you do all your aspiring 
in a straightfor’ard, proper manner. Young gentleman, will 
3'ou do me the honor to take a social nip?” 

But Dan knew how to excuse himself without offence. The 
proprietor now turned off the gas and opened the shutters, 
but the gra}^ morning light hardl}^ disclosed the most promin- 
ent features of the room. 

“ Mr. Flinteye,” said the excited Brand, “ I move we have 
a tall breakfast.” 

“There’s no such character in this here establishment,” 
the Old Bummer curtly replied. Whereat the Brand stared, 
and then, apparently enlightened, cried, “ I know ! The hal- 
shon morr}^ has come, an’ the nighthawk is gone to roost. 
Now it’s the fynancier a-playin’ of his figger ; four-’leven- 
forty-four ; I hope he won’t play it too reckless.” 

“ Yes,” returned the Old Bummer, “ that nightl}’’ bird has 
gone to his last roost. Never will Mr. Flinte3’e behold an- 
other sunset. This halshon da}'’ j’ines that veteran character 
to the Irrevocable Past. Hencefor’ard do he stalk the stage 
as the respected Old Gentleman.” 

“ I wish’t he hadn’t said it,” muttered the boding Brand. 
“ Now I’m scared. That talk ain’t lucky — I feel it in my 
bones. P’r’aps it might come true he did get fled-an’-j’ined 
afore sundown. It can’t last — ifs all too gay.” 

“ Now, young gentleman,” resumed Mr. Flinteye, “ make 
yourself to home a little spell till m3' Phoebe comes down. I 
hazard the opinion she’ll be glad to see you.” 

Thereupon the Brand was despatched to market, while Mr. 
Flinte3’e retired to the back room to start a fire. 

Phoebe had slept but little. Anxious to reach home 
as soon as possible, she left her room with the first light, 
explored the passage-way, and crept down the dark stairs to 
where the old man was busy at the stoye. 

“Bless you, deary!” said Mr. Flinteye, with manifest 
emotion, as she stepped into the ’room; “how bright you 
bring back them days long fled ! But go in there, deary ; go 
in and wait with your brother.” 

He pointed to the bar-room and her steps turned thither. 


LOST AXD FOUND. 


r>97 

Dan bid his face in bis arms, on the table, though his heart 
beat loud and fast. Phoebe saw him obscurely through the 
darkness, and, supposing him to be the Brand, came near 
and took his hand. He neither moved nor spoke. Perceiv- 
ing her mistake, she drew back. He locked her hand fast in 
his. A shock of fright ran along her nerves, but left her 
startled with a jo^^ful surprise. The hold on her hand was 
changing. Her efforts to escape ceased instantly, as if stilled 
by some magnetic power. There it was again — the old, 
well-remembered grasp that would have betrayed him, though 
she had lost eveiy sense save touch — filling her with un- 
speakable, intoxicating bliss. Was there magic in that 
clasp? Yes, for her and for him — ^a charm whose mysteri- 
ous intelligence was knowm to them alone. He sprang up, 
and, on the instant, the captive of his heart was a not un- 
willing prisoner against his heaving breast. One quick, glad 
cry gave voice to her jubilee ; and dearer to her than any 
pledge, sweeter than any vow, more precious than any pro- 
mise, was the deathless devotion that breathed in his accent 
as he vvhis[)ered, Dear Phoebe! Dear Phoebe!” 

What to them was father or brother, or the sere and dingy 
Clover-Leaf? — what the whole, wide world ? Not an atom in 
the scale. Not a ripple of the boundless sea whereon their 
fair bark was fairly launched. Not a cloudlet in the broad, 
bright heavens, above that wide and glorious El3’sium where 
the^' had wandered since childhood, and whose enchanting- 
landscape still stretched before them, far and far away. 

Perhaps Mr. Flinteye fancied they might find it lonesome 
in that gloom^^ room ; or, he ma^' have been doubtful of the 
advantages of leaving young lovers alone in a glimmering 
light ; for he was not given to accepting current ideas un- 
questioned, or to adopting prevailing customs without reflec- 
tion. Possibl}^ in a candid m(;od, he might have affirmed 
that subject to be a social main whereon he had traveled, 
from root to leaflet, and found many offshoots that did not 
harmonize with his present line of vision. At any rate, he 
appeared in the doorway and stood there a moment, silent 
but not displeased ; and the quiet of Elysium was broken by 
a mild, bantering, but approving voice, — 

“ Was I to hazard my opinion, you vrasn’t far off the track. 
Them daisies A-notu-” 


398 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


CHAPTER XXXm. 

THE HALCYON MORROW OF THE FINANCIER. 

Stunned by that fearful blow from the hand of the Brand, 
Gridly reeled out of the Clover-Leaf like a grotesque walk- 
ing machine, whose propelling force was not exhausted, but 
whose steering gear was out of joint, or its directing intelli- 
gence asleep. 

“ I bet you his brains felt awful mixed,” the Brand had 
declared ; and, perhaps, upon a searching examination by some 
competent investigator, he would have \von his wager. It 
may well have been that the living colloids, white and gray, 
were actuall}’ commingled by concussion, as one could mix 
the white and the yelk of an egg. By some reflex impulse 
he shifted the bag on his shoulder, and held it with both ends 
free. The glass jar fell and was shivered on* the sidewalk, 
but he knew it not. Unconscious of the loss he staggered 
on, wdth an idiotic smile, towards the water. The air seemed 
full of meteors, and, save them, was void. Phantoms of the 
optic nerve they were, flashing athwart interior darkness at 
the shock of each wave from the heart. What Power guided 
his blind steps', or gave the fiat, “ Hitherto shalt thou come 
and no further?” Not his own volition, at all events. But 
he sat down upon the extreme verge of the pier, and fumbled 
at his burden. What awful scream was that, shaking his 
bewildered brain? Onl}^ the signal w'histle of a panting tug. 
What baleful dragon-eye glowed so red, and glided "by in 
the darkness? Only the furnace of a passing steamboat. 
And those whispering tongues that nestled in his ear and 
chuckled there? Nothing but the mirthful waves. Was this 
rattling toy a monstrous doll, now all undressed? Alas! 
poor Snib ! ‘Fondled once more by thy lord and master, — 
dandled upon his knees, even, once again, — and in such 
piteous shape ! 

Perhaps the colloids were segregating, at last, into their re- 
spective bounds, for, one by one, the events of the last few 


THE HALCYON MORROW OF THE FINANCIER. 899 


hours came back to mind. He felt the object on his lap, and 
recognized it, shuddering. With a savage curse he hurled it 
away, and through the murk}" night sped the creaking Snib, 
to sink forever, with her unchanging, eternal laugh. Then 
he rose and fled. His watchful eyes peered through the dim 
light, and his guilty heart quaked at every sound. But 
nowhere did he meet the special object of his dread, for the 
streets were abandoned by the police. Other travelers there 
were, on that route, singl}^ at first or in couples, then in aug- 
menting groups, — hastening too, like himself, and in the 
same direction ; ill-favored rascals many of them, in 
scanty, mean attire, and armed with rude weapons. But no 
fear of them had Gridl}", for the}" wore the look of kindred 
spirits. Upon his ear struck an alarm-bell. A fire ! Im- 
portant, evidently, else why such numbers hurrying so fast 
and so far? Another bell, and another! Alarms, distant 
and neai*. An extraordinary number of fires to-night, 
surely, and to be witnessed by unusual spectators, one must 
believe. But what need of clubs, or paving-stones, or heavy 
hammers? What employment for the rag-picker’s hook, or 
a rusty sabre? One might, indeed, find rags, for it will soon 
be light ; yes, quite bright, and that before dawn ; and our 
sabre may guard valuables recovered from the flames ; 
— a thief or two could stray that way. Oh, yes, 
perhaps. Another bell, far off? And yonder, one ! 
Loiter not, bell-ringers ! The sky is reddening, here and 
there. Carry meat and drink, and stimulants, besides ! for 
ye have work on hand, and shall pot rest to-morrow nor sleep 
to-morrow night. From street and alley come units, and 
tens, and scores, swelling our groups to crowds. There is a 
spectacle ahead, — illuminated roofs peopled by restless 
dwarfs, and bright cornices, sharply defined against the sky. 
Clouds of incense also, as from a thousand subterranean 
altars, rising and scintillating ; a fiery, forked tongue, as of 
some huge, infernal monster, thrust up to lick the air and 
withdrawn again; then a flaring flame, growing into a mighty 
blaze high aloft. 

Hasten, Friends, and speak, too ! No matter what ye say, 
so it be loud and fierce. 

“ The times are dull,” — and always were, for you. 

Work is so very hard to find,” — and has been, ever 
since ye were whelped. 


400 


A YOUXG DlSClPLi:. 


“ And we are poor w'orkingmen. But now we shall find 
work, and play, besides ; and there will be goat’s milk, also, 
rich and plenteous, flowing free. Hasten, Friends ! ” 

Oh ! yes ; hurry, fiends ! Ye will make work, and 3'e 
will pla3\ Speed away! “Devil take the hindmost!” — 
and all, up to the foremost ! But not now, for ye are not 
mellow yet, though ripening fast. 

Why should not Gridl^Muiriy with them? Another w’ork- 
inginan, of their own species, and as worthy of the name as 
the most truculent vagabond among them all — a life-long 
employ^ under the same master, and now equally poor. 
A more illustrious man than he shall yet call them Friends ; 
and within him is born a spirit, hungiy for such work as they 
will find, and thirsting to join their play. 

Close at hand he heard the monster howl, loud and long, 
and came suddenly in full view of the scene. The broad 
street was packed with an infuriated host. Many were plun- 
dering stores. But the great mass gazed up with ribald 
insults and mocking cries to red windows, where, through 
rolling smoke, living silhouettes of agony writhed in horrid 
pantomime, hemmed round by flames. 

Poor Harlequins ! Eloquent your posturing, and quite 
sprightly’ 3’our gesticulation, in this, 3’our last appearance. 
Favorites 3*6 seem, before a dazzling curtain, and upon a 
stage where is no lack of footlights. But inaudible 3’our 
speech, above such applause, if voice 3*e longer have ! 

Not easy to keep one’s place in that asseinbl3% and danger- 
ous to stumble, one would sa3", had one but listened here and 
there, where smothered groans told of some doomed wretch 
trampled under the maddened mob. Perhaps the Friends do 
not hear those unimportant sounds beneath their feet, for 
the3^ die away unheeded amidst jeers and 3"ells. Manifold 
lh*ofanit3' rides the four winds, cheering those frenzied hearts 
with Pandemoniac music. And the paving-stone may now 
find a mark ; for there are lower casements, framing pale por- 
traits of Horror. Who knows but our good sword will yet 
have a chance? The sphere of action is manifestly enlarging, 
and that not slowly. Our handy fish-spear could bite "well, 
too, though not made for human game, and the iron shutter- 
bar need not rust. Our bludgeon also might have its turn, 
and eke our musket, — ours or our neighbor’s, — if we but 


THE HALCYON MORROW OF THE FINANCIER. 401 

had it here. Nor should the humble car-hook be despised. 
At close quarters it can, and it shall, cover itself with red 
glory. 

Oh ! yes ; many resources have these fine fellows, and they 
can use them well, by the blessing of patron saints. Your 
self-styled workingman does not wish any conscription. 
Sucli behest, from an adoptive mother, makes the goat’s milk 
boil within his veins. He begins even to think that there 
must be no surviving evil of property’, except sufficient to 
maintain the goats. Wide lakes of potent nectar rise before 
him in mist^^ mirage, and in his besotted brain float bright 
visions of an impending Millennium, — a blessed era when 
the goats shall all be pastured by the State, and himself and 
the other Friends shall be salaried milkmen. 

Evidentl}", those Friends were no sluggards when once 
within reach of congenial work, for the plundering and 
wrecking of shops went on apace. Probably the rusty sabre 
had found other employment than guarding valuables recov- 
ered from the flames. The thunder of falling walls was 
echoed by a frightful roar, and torches then took wings, 
marking their flight with other conflagrations. The bells 
all over the city, pealing a general alarm, added to the terror 
of the night. But one must not wet the p 3 Totechnics of the 
“poor workingman,” — of him who has so little amusement! 
Therefore let the firemen be set upon with fury, wherever 
the}' arrive ! Superfluous exercise for the Friends. As if 
one w'ould prevent watering-pots from quenching Phlege- 
thon 1 

New actors appear, — blue-clad, steady and stalwart, 
marching swiftly to the onset, with revolvers in belt and club 
in hand. Serious business these seem bent upon. The mon- 
ster recoils slowl^q not in retreat, but squatting before he 
leaps. 

Forward, blue-coats ! Here are Hydra-skulls to crack. 
Here are targets, also, too long unvisited by your bullets ; 
and ye are not unpracticed, as one ma}' now discern by the 
sounding club and the barking pistol. ’Tis but sport for you. 
Is it not? 

Forward, mighty Myriapod, with thy ten thousand shaggy 
arms ! — and the blue-coats are down, ground to clay, utterly 
vanished beneath the monster’s feet, — except some ragged 


402 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


remnants of the rear-guard, flying like the wind, and hard 
pressed. 

Chance had led a timid negro to make his home not far 
thence, and now Fate lured him forth. He would take a 
nearer view of those strange scenes, and, having looked, would 
fain have gone with all speed. But his flight was begun too 
late. Not slow of foot were the brutes who gave chase, nor 
was it long ere they came again, dragging their trembling 
captive, while louder and fiercer rose the yells, “ Down with 
the Black-Republican heretics ! ” “ AgliU^ “ Death to the 

Nagurs!” “ Hur-roo ! for the white man’s country!” 
“Ali-roo ! Ah-r-r-r-oo ! ” 

The ruling frenzy accorded well with the tumult raging in 
Gridly’s heart ; and for him, apparently, Old Jeny’s coun- 
sels were not exhausted. If we were only round the Clover- 
Leaf now ! Or could even some few of us be led that wa3^ 
hands might be found to further a new design. But one 
should be a leader, or, at least, have influence, — to be gained 
here by distinguishing ferocity ; and of that Gridly had store. 
A gloss}' hat, however, with sparse sawdust thereon, and a 
sleek coat, might prove obnoxious to the Friends. He threw 
away coat, vest, and hat, disclosing his hair, matted with 
crimson glue, and winding tracks ‘where some scarlet liquid 
had trickled cfown his shirt. Recommendations to the Friends 
they were, from the hand of the Brand, and they would serve, 
though not written with such intent. Forcing his way through 
the crowd, Gridly caught the helpless black by the throat, and 
called for a rope. A dozen were ready. Pray to thy Mumbo 
Jumbo, if thou wilt, thou poor, swart soul, but scream not for 
mercy here ! It is Mr. Gridly that slips the noose so snugly 
around thy neck. 

Perhaps it is but natural that one subsisting on goat’s milk 
should be capricious. At any rate, the Friends appear whim- 
sical in their methods. One minute ago their cry was 
“ Down ! ” and now it clamors, “ Up with him! String him 
up ! ” And it is done, as far as a lamp-post will permit. 

Now make way for the kids and the cubs ! Imitative and 
emulous are they, and a small fire of their own they would 
build under, that black, dangling victim. To them it seems 
the opportunity for a celebration more signal than that of any 
election. No need of raids in search of ash-barrels. Fagots 


THE HALCYON MORROM' OF THE FTNANCIER. 403 

are plentiful, near by, and with them they raise their bonfire 
so high that there is risk of burning the rope too soon, and of 
letting their mark fall among the coals before they are done 
pelting. 

By such stimulus was the appetite of the mob whetted 
keener. Fresh victims were in demand. But now upon 
some of the Friends themselves certain sly playmates had 
begun to ply their pastime. Here and yonder fell a ruffian, 
— weltering witnesses that the noiseless knife was sporting, 
too. Wanton murderers were moving through the throng, 
dealing deadly thrusts, as well as skulking assassins who 
chose such fitting time and spilled much crimson ink, blotting 
out their private score. No one could tell who played so 
quietly and so darkly ; none knew but the blade lurked at his 
own side. Was this mju'iapod an autophagous creature? 
And these sudden, shooting pains, were they pangs of disso- 
lution or of parturition? 

This way and that the monster swayed, and, propagating 
by fission, sent out a numerous progeny to seek new scenes 
of rapine. Forth from their unwholesoihe dens swarmed a 
scoundrel horde, overrunning the streets like a plague of 
venomous reptiles. The social currents of the great city 
have many a fetid pool where festering humanity settles and 
genders, and from these now crawled their living dregs. 
Noisome allej’s belched out their denizens. Each home of 
crime gave up its guilty population. The whole fraternity 
of thieves abandoned their haunts, while fugitive criminals 
of all sorts, long hidden in burrows unknown to the e^'e of 
Justice, now stalked abroad, read}" to act their part in the 
light of day. Nor were it seemly that the female Friends 
should remain slothful. Accordingly they forsook their 
abodes. In every quarter they gathered, flocking like foul birds 
of prey, with faces more hideous and spirits more fell than 
fabled Furies ; and everywhere roved the squalid young of 
these ferocious dams. Though armed to the teeth, the police 
were unable to cope with the desperadoes assembling in every 
precinct. The militia had been ordered away to the seat of 
war. Street-cars and stages all were housed. The railways 
were torn up. One gang of desperate villains set otf to de- 
stroy the aqueduct. What need of water for the Friends, or 
for their kids, so long as goat’s milk fails not? Water is 


404 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


useful to the enemy. It slakes their thirst, whereas without 
it they might haply parch in so much heat. Therefore we 
will have no water. 

But that scheme was foiled. 

The asylum for negro orphans was burned to the ground. 
Your thorough-going Friend is not accustomed to the sight 
of black men, in his native country, and he begins to think 
it time that they were cleared from the land of his adoption. 
Inoffensive little creatures were those orphans, to be sure, 
but, had their race been already exterminated, there would 
have been no war, as it seems to the Friends, and, conse- 
quently, no conscription. Besides, they were Black-Republi- 
can infants,, doubtless, as well as heretics. 

Organized parties visited the foundries and factories, forc- 
ing the workmen into their ranks, while other bands began 
their work of pillage upon the dwellings of the rich. The 
gas-works were threatened. What need of gas for the 
tYiends, when the wide heavens are so luminous? Far 
and near, the incessant booming of the bells told that the 
ringers rested not ; but the firemen no longer answered their 
summons, though thickening clouds of smoke marked the 
incendiaries’ track. Like a contagious pestilence the delirium 
spread, until the broad avenues throbbed with a surging tide, 
and the streets were alive with maniacs seeking new atrocities. 
At last, the self-styled workingman was fairly busy. 

To some purpose Gridly had distinguished himself, for 
many began to look upon him as a leader. He had secured 
the revolver of a dead policeman. His subordinates he chose 
with skill, and around them cohered more than a hundred 
reliable Friends. This choice company he led to the assault 
on a liquor-store ; for it accorded not with Old Jerry’s 
counsels that any spark of reason should linger in their dull 
brains, or an}^ djing ember of pity smoulder in their brutal 
hearts. To dash in the doors was the amusement of a 
moment. What though that vendor of goat’s milk were, 
himself, a Friend? Can he not take a friendly joke? Out 
roll the corpulent barrels, into the street. ^ 

“ Here ! every Friend that thirsteth ! Come and drink the 
goat’s milk freely ! Come, without rank tumbler, or ill- 
smelling bottle ; without foul pitcher, or rag - stoppered 
demijohn! Without money or pawn-ticket, come and soak 
yourselves bursting full 1 ” 


THE HALCYON MORROW OF THE FINANCIER. 405 


Even children sprawled, to lap the poisonous rivulets that 
flowed over the sidewalk, and capered, amidst loud hilarity, 
and fell. 

“Down with the Black Republicans!” shouted Gridly, 
brandishing his pistol. “ Now come with me I ” 

The drunken rabble yelled their plaudits, and followed like 
hounds unleashed. Every bloated face was blazoned with 
hate and greed ; every throat was hoarse with fury ; every 
brain burned with madness. Gridly might prosper yet. 
Certainly, no fitter instruments could be had for his latest 
enterprise, though supplied by the tutelary Jerr^’ himself. 
Doubtless, the objects of his quest could still be found where 
he had left them. Toward Flinteye’s dwelling he led the way 
at full speed. • / 

The inmates of the Clover-Leaf were startled b}^ the 
approaching uproar ; and the Brand, darting out, stood 
before the door, pointing up the street. 

“ Whoop ! Whoop ! ” he cried. “ Look at ’em chase the 
W ampire ! They’ve got him dead-to-rights ! — dead-to -rights I 
Who-whoop I ” 

Flinte3'e sprang out, and one glance revealed the fearful 
peril that menaced himself and his children. He ran back 
and grasped Phoebe b}' the arm, ciying, “Run! Run for 
3’our life ! Out to the boat ! To the boat! ” 

There was no time to bring the craft to the shed of the 
Clover-Leaf, or escape would have been possible for all. 

“ Hurry ! ” cried the old man. “ To the boat ! ” 

No sooner was Dan outside than he saw good reason for 
hurrying Phoebe to some refuge. He knew not where to find 
the boat. But he had heard the word, and he helped Phoebe 
along, as fast as he could, towards the water. Flinteye ran 
out after them, his valise in one hand, and in the other a 
rope-ladder. He saw the Brand, armed with a paving-stone 
and advancing to meet Gridly, evidently believing him 
hunted by the crowd, and eager to be in at the death. 

“ Come back ! ” he shouted. 

“ Not till I give him his medsun ! ” cried the Brand, and 
still he moved on. 

“ Come back ! ” Flinte^^e almost shrieked. “ They're after 
us I Come back^ I say ! ” 

Then only did the Brand discover that Gridly was not the 


406 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


chase, but the hunter. He wheeled, at once, and joined the 
flying fugitives. Their ark was not far off, idly floating at 
•its mooring under the long pier, near the further end. But 
their time was short. 

“ There they go ! ” clanked Gridly’s iron tongue. “ Down 
with ’em ! Heretics ! Heretics ! ” ' 

A bullet from his pistol whistled through the air, and then 
another. 

‘‘^Spingl Sping!*’ echoed the Brand. “Hear ’em smg? 
Now you’ll rue it you didn’t let me flnish.” 

“For’ard, Bubber! Run out the boat!” cried Flinte3'e, 
and the Brand sped on ahead. Gridly was man}’ yards in 
advance of his band. Running at the top of his speed, he 
called out, — 

“ Stop, d — n you I Stop, Flinteye, or you’re a dead dog ! ” 

“ Faster, lassie ! ” cried Flinteye, dropping behind Plioebe, 
to shield her from the expected shot. Dan turned at bay, 
but Flinteye urged him forward ; and twice again spoke the 
revolver, amidst the yells of a hundred hoarse throats, and 
the rushing tumult of headlong pursuit. 

“Only two barrels more,” muttered Flinteye, “but he’s 
nigher now.” 

With a leap and a splash, like some aquatic animal, the 
Brand had already gone from sight, under the pier. But he 
came in view again, climbing swiftly up the slippery logs, 
and over the edge, and stood with a rope in his hands, hold- 
ing the boat. Gridly stopped to take deliberate aim. Only 
two shots were left, and neither must fail. Only a few 
moments remained for him to work, and for the howling 
Friends to gain their playground. The others were very near 
their goal when, from the Brand, came the shrill warning, — ■ 

“ Look out. Old Gen’leman 1 He’s drawing a bead I Jump 
one side ! ” 

A loud, sharp answer cracked from the pistol, and the 
three stopped, close by the Brand. Only one knew the effect 
of that last shot. But that one gave no sign. In an instant 
Flinteye was standing on one end of the rope-ladder while 
the other end hung in the boat. 

“ Quick, lad ! ” he said, pointing to Phoebe. 

Dan stooped and Phoebe clasped him around the neck. In 
a trice he was descending the ladder, carrying her like a 


TEE EALCrON MORROW OF TEE FINANCIER. 407 


cliild on his sturdy right arm. Flinteye threw bis valise into 
the boat. 

“ Bubber, it’s yours and hers,” he said ; “ share and share 
alike.” 

Looking down at Dan with impressive earnestness, he 
added, — 

“ Young gentleman ! I leave her to your care, and to my 
Jack. Save her from tlie Vampire ! ” 

The Brand stood leaning backward, with one foot braced, 
holding the boat while he faced the wild mob. 

“ Toddle down, Old Gen’leman 1 ” he cried. “ I folly you.” 

The other pointed to the skiff without a word. His face 
was deathly pale. 

“Go first!” begged the Brand. “Hurry! Hurry I I 
can dive ! ” 

Flinteye made no reply, but stamped upon the ground, 
while he pointed downward and looked sternly at his son. 
The Brand ran down into the skiff. 

“ Come, father ! ” cried Phoebe, “ don’t wait.” 

As the words died on her lips, a savage roar burst from 
the mob. Not twenty paces off, Gridly was leaping forward, 
straining every nerve to stop their flight. Reaching up with 
both arms, Phoebe cried, — 

“ Father, why don't you comef" 

But the old man’s knees shook as though they would give 
way, and a scarlet torrent foamed out of his mouth. The 
ladder slipped beneath his feet, and he sank down, while the 
eddying current swept the boat from sight under the pier. 

One witness was silenced. But Old Jerry can be very 
treacherous, even to a protege. Now there were fresh wit- 
nesses, and the plunder was slipping away besides, — depart- 
ing, surely, for Gridly had seen the valise and knew its con- 
tents, but accessible yet to a man of enterprise. Could 
Gridly but come near with a few of those choice spirits, three 
witnesses might be dealt with easily. Bestowing a kick and 
a curse upon the corpse, he hooked the ladder over a beam 
and clambered down. A thick, gloomy grove of piles, green 
with slimy ooze, as if a half-submerged forest had been sawn 
off and roofed, into whose forbidding depths his eye could 
trace a short, winding track of bubbles. If any sound, of 
oar or tongue, issued therefrom, it was drowned by tramping 


408 


A TOVNO DISCIPLE. 


feet and frantic voices above. He climbed back with all 
haste. At that moment the skiff shot out on the open water 
from the end of the pier, Dan and the Brand bending to the 
oars. Gridl}’’ ran towards them with leveled weapon, com- 
manding them to stop ; but they pulled with all their might. 
Difficult to reach, but not inaccessible yet to persistent pur- 
suit, if our choice spirits only had incentive like our own. 
But the Friends have found a plaything, and with it they are 
sporting ; nor readily will they leave it till it be broken and 
worn out, — an amusement, however, which will not waste 
much time, so eager is the game. 

“ Look, Phoebe,” cried the Brand, in a choking voice, “ see 
how they 3’^erk him round ! But he don’t feel it ; he’s fled an’ 
went. ’Twos the Wampire’s bullet picked him.” 

Phoebe crouched low and hid her face, unable to look upon 
the scene. The next moment Dan cried: “Pull awa}’ ! 
The}" are coming ! ” 

A 3’awl glided out from among the shipping, with Gridly 
in the bow and two others at the oars. Fresh entertainment 
for the Friends, — a boat-race ! The mob thronged the end 
of the pier, and the welkin echoed to their howls. Dan cast 
a glance of anguish at Phoebe, and bade her sit close behind 
himself and the Brand, while Gridl}" rested his pistol on the 
bow of the yawl. 

“ Oh, Lord ! ” panted the Brand. “ How swift they row ! ” 

Dan spoke not a word. His teeth were closed like a vise, 
and the sweat poured down his face like rain. 

“ If he don’t pick any bod}" but me ! ” muttered the Brand. 
“Lay low, Phoebe, — the lowest you can! Oh, Lord ! see 
his lantern gleam along that barrel ! ” 

“Shut up!” roared Dan, in fierce impatience. “Pull 
away ! ” 

Good oarsmen both, and one familiar with tide and chan- 
nel by day or night. 

“ Feather your oar ! ” shouts Dan. “ Now we go. “ Pull 
away ; pull away ! ” 

A swifter current is reached, and faster and faster fly the 
fugitives. 

“ Hear it ripple, for’ard ! ” cries the Brand. “ See it foam, 
astern ! Now we scud ! ” 

Good oarsmen both ; supple and strong ; racing for their 


THE HALCYON MORROW OF THE FINANCIER. ,409 

lives, and for something else far dearer. On they speed. 
The gap is widening. 

“ Stop ! ” yells Gridly, “ or I send a ball through you ! ” 

But they pull with the same quick, powerful stroke, watch- 
ing intently. Suddenly, as the diver starts at a flashing gun, 
both sit bolt upright, close together, a complete bulwark for 
their companion, and Gridly’s last shot cuts the water on one 
side. Then all bend to the oars again, and pursuers and 
pursued glide swiftly along with the wind and the tide. 

Wider and wider grew the gap. Impotent were Gridly’s 
curses and vain his threats. The skiff' gained steadily, until 
the yawl gave up the hopeless chase and turned towards 
shore. Dan and the Brand then rested from their toilsome 
flight, wondering at the clanging bells and the clouds of 
smoke, and conversing, in awe-struck tones, of Flinteye’s 
death. The Brand lamented bitterly and unceasingly. 

“ We’ll never see him no more,” he mourned. “ He’s fled 
an’ went. I begged him to go first, but he w’ouldn’t. He 
knowed the Warapire had picked him, but never let on he 
wos a goner. Straight ahead he kep’, gamey to the last. Not 
many as’ll miss him. P’r’aps none but his Bubber — the 
only one in all the world as loved him. Becos thej^ didn’t 
know him well. You would thought he wos the ruggedest 
man going, an’ you’d uv bet him for to be cruder than that 
old Christian w'olf. But you would been off the track, an’ 
you’d uv lost that bet. Inside, he had the kindest heart ever 
beat. Many’s the small, hungiy cove I’ve seen him feed. 
The blind men, too, all knowed his voice, an’ lots an’ lots o’ 
chink he’* handed out to such ones as wos poor an’ cold. 
Maybe his lanterns wos red, but they didn’t know no goggle- 
game. Maybe his hand wos great on dodging round; but 
’twos only for a reg’lar, — not for a spot to put in the auction- 
eer. From the wery start he wos kind to me. But I knowed 
’twos all too gay. He’s fled an’ went forever. His plant lays 
yonder, in the dock ; but, if they is a Shinin’ Shore, his sould 
is there.” 

The Brand’s face was wet with tears, and his voice was sad 
and disconsolate beyond description. Dan spoke very gently 
to him. 

“Don’t forget Phoebe!” said he. “You know we must 
take her home, and you’re the only one to show the wa3^ 
Come, let’s row along! We are going home.” 


410 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“ The Clower-Leaf wos home,” was the mournful answer, 
“ but it’s torn to splinters, now. Good-bye, home ! I bet 
I never see you again.” 

“ We’re going to our home,” returned Dan ; “ and you, too. 
You shall come there to live.” 

“ Not for long,” sighed the Brand, and again he dipped his 
oar. 

Their course was as unknown to Dan as if it had lain 
across the sea. But, under the pilotage of the Brand, they 
passed through Buttermilk Channel, rounded Governor’s 
Island and, keeping off far enough to elude any watch of 
Gridly’s from the shore, made their laborious way over tow- 
ards Jersey City, and then up the North River. At length 
they landed, and, through many terrible scenes, the Brand 
guided Dan and Phoebe safely home. As the}’ drew near the 
door he darted ahead to announce their arrival. 

Mr. Babbon sat overwhelmed with grief when this young 
stranger entered, and his wife, no less distressed, was trying 
to comfort him. The old man looked apprehensively at the 
intruder. But the Brand took off his hat respectfully, and, 
with a futile attempt at a cheerful face, sadly began : — 

“ P’r’aps, sir, an’ mom, you may not know who I be, 
though you’ve seen me afore, in days fled an’ gone, as a old 
gen’lemen used to say ; but he’ll never say it no more ; ” and 
he burst into tears. Both looked at him in astonishment, 
and Mr. Babbon kindly asked, “ Who are you, my lad, and 
what’s your errand ? ” 

A melancholy smile appeared on the countenance of the 
Brand, as unlooked-for sunbeams sometimes slant suddenly 
through a shower. 

“ I’m the Little Bummer, now,” he replied. “ But, when 
I lived with Deacon Biggot, I wos a firebrand of sin, an’ the 
Child o’ Satan.” 

“ Bless my heart alive ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Babbon. “ It is 
that little heathen.” 

“Yes, mom,” promptly assented the Brand, “that’s who 
I be, an’ that deacon wos my priest. I’ve come to tell you 
about Dan an’ my sister Phcebe. They’re both all right.” 

“ Quick my lad ! Out with it ! ” cried Mr. Babbon, while 
his wife gasped, “ your sister ! Merciful heavens! ” 

“Now kee’ still ! Kee’ still ! ” urged the Brand, his sorrow 


THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER. 411 


subsiding, for the moment, under rising excitement, “or I 
go plumb down into my shell an’ close up, tight as a turtle. 
Slie has turned out to be m}^ sister, an’ she wos stole away by 
a wampire. His name is Gridly.” 

“ Only one more poor, innocent victim,” groaned Mrs. 
Babbon, “ to glut the maw of that insatiate canker-worm.” 

“ I don’t know that worm,” resumed the Brand. “ But I 
know the bloody Wampire. He thought he’d rigged a sure 
glut ; but he wos gummed an’ beat. Now, don’t you be 
worried, mom ! Phoebe is safe from the Wampire an’ every 
other cruel bird. Dan is coming with her, an’ the}’’ re dead — ” 

He stopped and stared, such a start this word provoked. 
He then continued, — '‘^stone-dead in love., like they wos at 
school, but worse. So, now, don’t be worried, but bet where 
they be ! ” 

A firm, eager tread was heard on the stairs, followed by 
a lighter step. 

“ Bet I ” cried the Brand, in wild excitement. “ It’s awful 
easy ! ” 

Tliat instant, Dan and Phoebe ran into the room, and 
Phoebe clung round Mrs. Babbon’s neck with a glad cry, 
while the Brand drew his hand across his glistening eyes and 
sighed, — 

“ It won’t bring luck to me. It’s rjgged too gay to last.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER. 

The arm of municipal authority seemed paralyzed by terror. 
Over the city hung a vast cloud of smoke, thickening day by 
day, and glowing far and wide by night. Cumulative testi- 
mony it was, to the industry of the incendiaries ; and beneath 
that black, grewsome canopy was the myriapod christened. 

Fret not the unchained tiger, though often petted by thy 
hand; and bespeak the myriapod with oily flattery, thou 
venerable gentleman, even if, perchance, thou hast helped 
rear him ! To high dignity have we raised thee, but we could 
lift thee again, by the bleking of patron saints and our good 


412 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


cord. Make bare thy shining poll, and stir thy smooth 
tongue ! 

Friends ! ” 

“ Hiir-roo ! Hur-roo ! ” 

The myriapod hears its name. 

“ My friends ! — ” 

“ Hur-r-r-roo ! Hur-r-r-roo ! Ah-r-r-r-oo ! ” 

Now lick the beast, thou polished scholar, with practiced 
tongue, and bless him with honeyed lips ! 

“ Hoo-roo ! We poor workingmen have found a voice and 
a friend, — and are cheered thereby. Our wrongs burn 
clearer now ; — and our hopes brighten. Shall we be robbed 
of our rights? No; — by the aid of patron devils and our 
good paving-stones. We, too, would like soft clothing. We 
would carpet our dens with velvet — which can be obtained 
for the asking. Luxurious furniture shall soon be ours for 
the mere trouble of seizing ; and, ere long, cash can be had 
in abundance, on demand. Only slacken not your endeavor, 
good Friends, and weary not at your play ! Down wdth the 
Yankee heretics ! ” 

Did we rightly hear thee. Myriapod? Yes, from many a 
Hydra- throat. A new slogan on this Western soil ; — and a 
difficult undertaking for thee, or any of thy kindred spawn. 

“ Down with the Yankee heretics ! ” 

Not easy to put down, O Myriapod ! as others have learned, 
and as will yet be made known to thee. 

“ Hur-r-r-oo ! Ah-r-r-oo I Cut-glass will we have for our 
goat’s milk ; and henceforth shall our down-trodden poultry 
roost on rosewood. The shanty shall be garnished with mir- 
rors, and surrounded with a rampart of pianos. Eight hours 
work a day! Not an hour, after we are through this task. 
The adoptive Mother shall feed and clothe us all, not forget- 
ting our monthly Salary, as milkmen. Ah-roo ! Ah-roo ! 
Down with the Yankee heretics ! 

Yes, if they would down ; — whibh they will not. They 
are even moving up, already, from far-off fields, and will 
meet thee, O Myriapod 1 Now that the christening is over 
send forth thy rabid progeny, to ravage and to propagate 
again. 

The bell-ringers rested not, though spent with toil, till 
silenced by the Friends. Business was suspended all over 


THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER. 


413 


the cit3% except where the “poor workingmen” were now 
deeply engaged. In the lower wards the great warehouses 
were deserted. Banks were guarded. Few vehicles were 
to be seen in the streets. Many timid tradesmen barred 
their shutters and closed their desolate shops. The factories 
all were still. The roar and din of foundries had given way 
to unwonted silence. Sprightly jets of steam no longer flung 
their gala wreaths above ten thousand roofs, nor gladdened 
the sunshine with their light, silvery pennons; — the steam- 
pipes had turned cold at the monster’s voice. The dwellings 
of many respectable citizens showed no external sign of life, 
and few of their inmates ventured abroad. Noiseless as fall- 
ing snow, thick showers of impalpable soot settled from the 
gloomy air. New echoes spoke from the walls. Old horrors 
put on fresh forms.. An unknown populace had come forth, 
as though some strange race of troglod 34 es had burst from 
subterranean dens. Pillage held high carnival ; arson ran 
riot ; murder was rife. It was as if an epidemic of madness 
had broken out and held swav* The city seemed given 
over to be sacked and burned. Nor man3^ days would those 
multiplying monsters have required to complete their work, 
and to end their play, with such a grand spectacle. But, for 
them, little time was left, — their working hours and their 
holiday were drawing to a close. Sober citizens were awak- 
ing from their stupefaction and organizing. The actual 
ivorJi'wgmen — all those who live b3" honest labor of hand or 
brain — would not let so foul a monster degrade their honor- 
able name, and they were mustering. The municipal arm 
shook off its lethargy. From adjacent garrisons and distant 
camps other blue-coats were hastening, — not with revolvers 
in belt and club in hand, but with arms whose loud jubilee 
had been heard on many a bloody field. 

“ Hasten, Friends ! To the arsenal ! Weapons are there 
in plent3^ — better than bludgeon and paving-stone — more 
effective, far, than iron shutter-bar or handy fish-spear — 
wrought by cunning artisans for human game. Too long 
have we neglected them, alread3\” 

Too long, indeed. For, ere this, hearts and hands are 
there, also — hearts that fear not to meet thee, O Myriapod ! 
and hands trained to wield those arms — men inured to war, 
who have heard and seen those weapons win on many bloody 


414 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


fields — a full thousand of them, quartered in the building and 
guarding the approaches. 

A few blocks awa}^, two lamp-posts had been hideously 
decorated, each with a hapless negro ; and on those stark, 
black pendants the kids and the cubs were now exercising. 
Near b}^, the mob gathered fast, swelled to huge proportions, 
and, flushed with previous successes, moved forward to over- 
run the arsenal. Silent, amidst howls and showers of mis- 
siles, the artillerymen stand ready to rake the street. Pistols 
and muskets are discharged at them, and then, with savage 
3’ells, a rush is made to capture the guns. But here are 
orators who care not to bespeak the myriapod with soothing 
flattery — industrious workingmen., probably, and unwilling 
to waste precious time — orators who answer those blood- 
thirsty" tongues with a tempest of grape-shot and a voice of 
thunder, as it were uttering the sharp command, — 

Peace! Be still!’' 

Nor is the effect of that brief speech unworthy' of note. 
The shouts and curses that rend the air end in groans and 
shrieks. 

‘■‘‘Peace! Be still!” 

Again that merciless storm smites the reeling mob, and, 
wild with terror, they surge back in frantic flight. Headlong 
they plunge through doors and windows, and deep into cel- 
lars, anywhere and every'where, out of range of the guns. 

In five minutes no sign of life was to be seen, except the 
stolid artillerymen resting at their post and shattered limbs 
writhing on the ground. Many broken members of the 
monster lay supine or prone, their Hydra-throats hushed for- 
ever, while others had learned new music in a minor key", and 
suddenly changed their hoarse howls to a doleful wail. And 
on that arid pavement was much welcome moisture — grape- 
juice, iDerhaps, from those iron clusters, or red, curdling 
goat’s milk, lost by the myniapod. 

A stern lesson, truly", but unheeded as yet by other kin- 
dred monsters. Thicker and blacker grew the canopy above, 
and more sulphurous the lower air. More portentous was 
the aspect of the streets, and fiercer echoes resounded from 
the walls. Attempts were made to burn the ship-yards, with 
the unfinished men-of-war lying on the stocks. The Tribune 
office was assaulted by a vast mob, upon whom fell strong,, 


THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER, 


415 


converging columns of police ; and that victory was scored 
by the municipal arm. One police station was stormed, 
plundered, and demolished. Another mob assailed an ar- 
mory, where the defence was composed of fifteen employes 
and forty policemen. No sooner were the doors dashed in 
than the foremost assailants fell. But over them the others 
rolled, like a resistless wave, and the garrison vanished. 
Arms were plentiful now, even the kids and the cubs being 
supplied with all they could carry. A regiment of militia 
marched up Third Avenue, followed a body of about four 
hundred policemen. At Thirty -fourth Street the police were 
attacked ; but here, also, victory perched upon the municipal 
banner. Further on, the military were hotly engaged. Their 
howitzers and rifles soon carried the day, however, and they 
were summoned to another quarter. But they left without 
their commander. The colonel remained, perforce, felled by 
a paving-stone, battered beyond recognition, stamped upon, 
tossed in air, crushed out of human form — a shapeless, 
mudd}’ object, howled at for hours, like a carcass watched by 
barking dogs. Another horde of miscreants rolled down 
Pitt Street like a flood of all-destroying lava. Much work 
were these bent upon, as well as exciting pla}^, but they had 
^begun too late. Instructors were on the road to read them a 
memorable lesson — marching from distant camps and now 
quite near, with arms that had won on many a hard-contested 
field. At the corner of Grand Street they met, monster and 
master. Bronzed veterans were there in dark-blue ranks, 
with a goodly glitter of sloping steel. 

Now, Friends, let fl3^ 3'our jeers and taunts ! Shake your 
fish-spear and swing your iron shutter-bar ; hurl your mis- 
siles and discharge 3"Our firearms ! Crouch low, in front, 
and creep nearer ! Probably they will fire blank cartridges, 
at first, hoping to frighten you with pop-gun warfare. Then 
leap upon them and grind them to dust ! 

But, leaping, they stumble. From curbstone to curbstone 
flash the deadly rifles again and again. A cry of horror 
bursts from the mob, and out of the rising smoke is heard 
the stern ord(U’ for the charge. 

Hurry, Friends! Away! See ye not those bare, level 
tusks of gleaming steel? They also have won in many a 
hard-fought battle, and are masters here. Wirra! Wirra! 


41G 


A VO UNO DISCIPLE. 


Away ! Better were it to have stayed at home to-day, and 

- safer never to have known the taste of goat’s milk. Agh ! 
Wirroo ! Wirroo ! Wirr-o-o-oo ! 

So quickly vanished this monster, one would believe it 
swallowed entire by the gaping earth, but for the torn rem- 
nants scattered so thickly on the surface ; and in reeking 
tenements thereabout was frantic demand for those sacred 
catsup-bottles of holy water, and a clamor for blessed 
candles. 

Similar scenes were enacted in ever}’^ precinct. Insurrec- 
tion was in full blast. The self-styled “ poor workingmen ” 
had found congenial employment at last, and were fighting 
a final battle for their millennium of anarchy. Nor had a 
certain Arch-friend been idle. Firm reliance on Old Jerry’s 
counsels had Peter Gridly, and he was not the man to relin- 
quish his purpose easily, as we have seen. Witnesses might 
yet be dealt with, and lost plunder recovered. Not difficult 
would it be to sweep the whole Babbon famil}^ out of exist- 
ence, only let loose those zealous Friends upon them ; and, 
while such entertainment was progressing, Gridly’s own hands 
could, no doubt, find and take charge of the plunder. Gridl}" 
had pla3’ed a prominent part among the rioters, thereby ex- 
tending and strengthening his influence. As fast as he could, 
he gathered a band of desperate wretches, choosing them from 
crowds where all were mad, and with these fit instruments he 
at length led the march toward the field of his hopes. Among 
them spread the report that a noted Republican heretic had 
been tracked to the retreat where he and his family were 
hiding ; and this proved a sufficient stimulus. At every step 
their numbers increased, until they crowded along by thou- 
sands. A detachment set out in advance, with orders to start 
a conflagration not far from Gridly’s objective point ; for 
Gridly had discovered that the myriapods matured quicker, 
and displayed a more blood-thirst}’’ appetite, in the heat of 
burning buildings. 

. None of Mr. Babbon’s famil}" had left the house since 
Phoebe’s return. The shocking scenes, witnessed from their 
windows, as well as the awful reports in the daily papers, 
forbade them to venture out. There the homeless Brand 
also had found shelter ; but in his heart, so light and joyous 
of late, now dwelt an abiding sorrow, and on his countenance 


THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER. 


417 


rested a deep melancholy" strange to see in one so young. 
Sometimes his face would brighten at a word from Phoebe, 
but for the most part he sat alone, silent and sad. He 
mourned constantly for Mr. Flinteye. Rich he was, beyond 
his comprehension, but to him it was as nothing; not all the 
world could replace his loss. The valise which Flinteye had 
thrown into the skiff, remained unopened in Phoebe’s care, its 
contents unknown, save to the Brand, and unthought of by 
him. He seemed to have become a confirmed fatalist. One 
fixed idea was rooted in his mind, — that the hunt was not 
yet over, and that, ere long, the Vampire would re-appear. 
One conviction possessed him, — that his own hand was des- 
tined to end the chase. His preparations were made. In 
his pocket lay a heavy leaden ball, secured to a leathern 
strap, in whose free end was a loop, fitted to his wrist. He 
was in the little parlor, with Dan and Phoebe, when a fire 
broke out on the block next above. It was the beacon light 
kindled by Gridly’s emissaries, and thither flocked the 
Friends. Down the avenue was an approaching host, and 
from the window the Brand descried their leader. To him it 
was as if the fated hour had struck. He stepped to the other 
window where Dan and Phmbe were watching the growing 
flames, and touched her arm lightly. 

“ Sister Phoebe,” said he, “ will you kiss me afore I go?” 

Phoebe turned and, wondering, kissed his cheek. At the 
same time he grasped her hand and Dan’s. 

“ Good-by-e, Phoebe ! ” said he ; “ good-bye, Dan ! ” 

As he started from the room, Phoebe cried out in sheer 
amazement, “ Jackedo ! where are you going?” 

“To finish my job,” replied the Brand, and he passed 
through the door. A moment later, he looked back and 
said, — 

“ Sister Phoebe, don’t forget to put in one or two for me 
to-day ! I need ’em awful bad.” 

Dan sprang to intercept him, but he bounded down-stairs, 
and was gone. From the window they saw liim dart round 
the first corner below. Eastward he ran, to the nearest ave- 
nue, then down a distance of several blocks, and w-estward 
again to where the front of the infuriated rabble had already 
rushed past. The next moment he was lost to view in the 
bod}^ of the gigantic myriapod. Unsuspected, he forced his 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


4 IS 

deeper into the throng and was borne along, the leaden 
ball clenched in his hand, and the strap looped round his wrist. 
As by unerring instinct he had divined Gridly’s designs, and 
he alone of all that countless multitude, except Gridly him- 
self, knew the true aim of their leader. Listening intently 
for that brazen voice amidst the tumult, and scanning every 
face as far as his e3^es could distinguish, he patiently threaded 
his way further forward in the immense assembly. Not 
3’et, however, had he caught sight of Gridly, when the latter 
was alread}' pointing out to his subordinates the place to 
begin. And now were heard strains of martial music. At 
intervals, as the uproar of the mob diminished, a faint, shrill 
melody of fifes, and the roll of distant drums floated in the 
air. Only one more block and Gridly would reach his desti- 
nation. He heard the music, and urged on his frenzied fol- 
lowers. A long column of policemen came running from the 
westward, and dashed upon the flank. 

Flinch not. Friends I Here are foes whom yQ have often 
met and never feared, — brave, indeed, but not trained to 
war ; expert with the eager club be3'Ond compare, and fond 
thereof past all belief ; ready for the fra3', too, but unlikely 
to prevail over such myriapod as this. Now the paving- 
stone can do good work. The fish-spear does bite well also, 
but no better than the axe. As for our rag-picker’s feeble 
hook, it is in disgrace, — a useless tool here, except for finish- 
ing purposes. But the iron shutter-bar prov^es no mean 
match for the wooden club, and pistol answers well to pistol. 
Bare are many of those Hydra-heads, but tough as solid 
bone. Those grisl3' visages are all aflame. Not timorous 
are those naked, shaggy^ breasts. Here the blue-coats have 
no holiday. Were it a mere trifle of a hundred harmless 
skulls to be cracked a la mode., they would soon render strict 
account. But how manage ten thousand? Not peaceful 
heads either, gaping in dumb pleasure at some parade, but 
ferocious fronts of this grim beast. 

Up into many of the adjacent houses swarmed the rioters, 
seizing posts of vantage at windows and upon roofs, whence 
they rained down bullets and all sorts of missiles. Here 
their fury seemed to culminate. Further and further back 
the blue-coats were forced, except those comrades who rested 
on the ground, and over whom the victors tramped. On one 


THE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FT NANO TER. 


411 ) 


roof lay a wanton sportsman with his trusty rifle, selecting 
his targets at leisure. It was Pinchey the kidnaper, for 
whom all municipal officers were legitimate game. But 
sporting men are not unused to reverses of fortune, and the 
wheel now brought ill luck to Pinchey. One policeman 
marked his skulking-place. 

Pinchey, beware ! Somebody is watching, and from his 
countenance one would infer that he has hopes of thee, — ■ 
nay, that he has a well-founded expectation. Perhaps his 
pistol will 3’et bring him credit, — its calibre forty-four, and 
the distance not great. He may cull thee ere long, in thy 
ripeness. Couldst thou but hear that sharp click! click!’’ 
Couldst thou but see the marksman as he rests his weapon 
on a comrade’s shoulder! Oh, yes; then, indeed, thy Win- 
chester might stand thee in good stead 1 But to-day the wheel 
has no such prize for thee. 

The policeman fires with careful aim. From Pinchey’s 
hand drops the rifle, along which his evil eye was just now 
glancing, but Pinchey will never move again. A round, 
red spot is set like a seal on his forehead, showing that the 
day-book of his exploits is finally closed. 

Good-night, Pinchey! and farewell ! Fitting be th}' 
dreams, if dreams thou have, in thy long sleep. 

Not without just pride does the blue-eoat note that his duty 
is well done. But in a quiet village stands a lonely cottage, 
with its jungle of flowering shrubs wherein the birds love to 
build, and there a loving mother waits, sustained by the un- 
dying hope that her truant boy will yet return. For years 
to come her fancy will see him prospering in some distant 
land ; and sometimes when the tempest raves, she will think 
of him upon the ocean, coming from far-off climes to revisit 
the home of his childhood. Nor will she ever know upon 
what raging sea his young life found shipwreck. 

Mr. Babbon and his son were looking down upon the terri- 
ble scene, all unconscious of their imminent peril, when they 
saw Gridly pointing up at them and heard him cry, “ Down 
with the Black-Republicans ! *’ 

The merciless mob now howled like hungry wolves. But 
above the tumult rose the shrill music of fifes, the stirring 
call of a bugle, and the sharp rattle of drums. Gridly heard 
the fifes scream louder and knew that little time was left. 


420 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


He mounted the steps, but the door was locked, and, as he 
beckoned to a half-naked Friend who carried an axe, he saw 
a forest of bayonets gathering before the mob. The creature 
with the axe ran up and aimed a blow at the door. But, at 
that instant, in Gridly’s ears rang a fierce, exultant cry. He 
saw the Brand within arm’s length, his closed teeth shining 
between parted lips, his face set rigid, and a slung-shot 
whirling round his head. Quick as lightning the flying ball 
sped through the air, straight for its mark. But the axe-bearer, 
stepping back to strike the lock, met the stroke not intended 
for him. He fell, without a word or a groan. A perilous 
moment was that for Gridly, but he was equal to the emer- 
gency. Before his enemy could aim a second blow he had 
thrust a knife into his bosom. The Brand staggered back, 
with the blade fastened where it struck, and the slung-shot 
dangling heavily from his nerveless wrist. Leaning against 
the iron railing he essayed to lift his weapon, while his eyes 
shot forth unutterable hate. Gridly pluck’ed out the knife. 

“ No use ! ” gasped the Brand. “ You’ve picked us both. 
But Old Jerry will fix you gay.” 

Gridl}" planted another stab. 

“ Old Jerry will finish my job,” the Brand once more 
gasped, and, reeling backward, fell over the railing into the 
area below the sidewalk. Then came the crash of musketry. 
Gridl}’ clutched the axe, and the door flew open at his first 
blow. But Old Jerry was certainly treacherous. At the 
bottom of the stairs stood Dan, gun in hand. No passage 
lay there, except over him, — a path upon which Gridly, with 
all his hardihood, could not venture. He turned and plunged 
into the flying crowd. Volley after volley carried carnage 
th!’ough the mob, and the street was then cleared at the 
point of the bayonet. That was the last of the myriapods. 
The city was now one vast camp — the parks all white with 
tents, and troops bivouacked in every open place. Cavalry 
and infantry patroled the streets, while the police scoured 
every precinct. Stubborn fighting still went on in some 
tenement districts, where many houses were carried by 
assault. But the insurredtion Was quelled. Back to their 
caves fled the troglodytes, and quiet ensued. It was found 
by the self-styled workingmen, that their Millennium had at 
least been antedated, if not, indeed, wholly a chimera. Faded 


TIfE BRAND FOLLOWS THE FINANCIER. 


421 


into tliiii.air were those nectar lakes of goat’s milk. That 
Utopian land of Indolence had vanished, utterly. Many an 
nngrateful beggar had learned that the adoptive Mother has 
a strong right arm, as well as a bountiful, breast ; and satis- 
factory were the numbers who reposed in consecrated ground, 
or lingered in hospitals, or crawled away to smart in their 
dens. 

Mr. Babbon was. giving vent to bursts of rejoicing at the 
manner in which the soldiery had handled the mob, while his 
wife was recovering from the prostration caused by the 
dreadful scenes which she had witnessed. Dan and Phoebe 
were conversing anxiously about the absent Brand, when a 
feeble, shuffling step drew near the door, and a tottering form 
staggered slowly in. .One hand was pressed to his bosom as 
if glued there, and from the other hung the slung-shot. The 
ash}' paleness of his face lent an unnatural brilliancy to his 
eyes. With lips that hardW moved, and with plaintive voice, 
he murmured, — 

“ Sister Phoebe ! kiss me once, afore I’m fled an’ gone ! ” 

He then -swa3'ed far to one side and fell. Phoebe knelt, 
with clasped hands, bending over him and crying, “Oh ! my 
brother! my poor, murdered brother!’' 

Dan carried him in his arms, and laid him on his own bed. 
The next moment he ran for a doetpr. His mother tried to 
stanch the blood, while Phoebe bathed the pale face, moist- 
ened the parched lips, and vainly strove to keep back her 
fast-falling tears. 

“ Water ! ” panted the Brand. “ Cold water!” 

He drank as if a river could not quench his thirst. 

The doctor came, and a single glance revealed to him the 
impotence of his art. His eyes rested pityingly upon his 
patient’s face. But the Brand, surveying him with a slow, 
untroubled gaze, softly said, — 

“ Docty 1 ’twont be no use. I’m going off the hooks.” 

The ph3'Sician’s e3’es, though unused to tears, grew moist 
as the wounded bo}'’ added, with touching earnestness, “ 1 got 
it doing right, — tackling the Wampire.” 

The doctor silent!}' withdrew and Phoebe followed, begging 
for a word of hope. 

“It is useless to deceive you,” said the doctor. “ He is in 
more powerful hands than mine : his minutes are numbered.” 


■ 422 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


With that, he departed and she returned to the bed of 
death. 

“ I knowed it wos too gay to last,” sighed the Brand. 

Dan hid his face, and grasped the Brand’s hand, as if his 
iron grip could hold him back from tlie embrace of death. 

“ Oh, my brother ! ” sobbed Phoebe, “ don’t 3*011 want to go 
to heaven ? ” 

‘‘ Heaven ! ” echoed the Brand, with an eager stare. 
“ There’s where I set out for. Once I wos on the road ; but 
1 wos h’isted off. Maybe they’s some other Shinin’ Shore for 
ones like me. Heaven ! Oh, I don’t know ; — I want to go 
where m\' Old Gen’leman has gone.” 

Suddenly, a look of intense anxiety clouded the face of the 
Brand. Ever}* heart thrilled as he gazed imploringl}* at his 
sister and asked, — 

“ Phoebe, will you ever come where Pm a-going, — do 3'ou 
think }*ou sometime will?” 

Unable to speak, Phoebe hid her face in the pillow. 

“ Cos it wouldn’t be so lonely.,’' added the Brand, and tlien 
he fainted. Through countless channels the vital tide was 
fast ebbing. But the fluttering heart gathered power again 
to rouse the failing brain. The Brand’s mind wandered, and 
he uttered a few incoherent words. A strange look spread 
over his features, as though horror unspeakable could blend 
with infernal jo};, and in an awful whisper he said, — 

Hear it! God’s rigged it right! Hear that horrid sissing? 
It’s the Wampire — in Old Jeriy’s fire ! ” 

A moment later he sighed, “ If I had a reg’lar, p’r’aps the 
chill would go ’way.” 

Dan brought some brand}^ and held it to his lips with a 
shaking hand. He swallowed greedily, biting the cup, and 
then he sighed, — 

“ Dear sister Phoebe, can a angel kiss the Child o’ Satan?” 

Phoebe wound her arms around his neck, and covered his 
cheek with kisses. In a broken voice, she cried, — 

“ Oh, m3* brother ! can’t 3*011 pray? ” 

“ Once I could,” fliiutly replied the Brand, “but I disre- 
meniber now. P’r’aps God knowed it wosn’t no use for me, 
an’ has it rigged some other way. But bring more water, — 
cold as ice ! ” 

Again he drank, vainly trying to assuage his thirst. Then 


THE BRAND FOLLO\VS THE FINANCIER. 


423 


he strove to lift his head and fainted. Recovering with a 
frightened stare, he muttered : — 

“ ’Twos only swoonding — that wos all.” 

But hardly had he spoken when he fainted again, and 
slowly awakened once more. 

“ Must I keep swoonding?” he panted, with a look of pit- 
eous appeal. “You pray, Phoebe ! It might be some use. 
Tell Him to make it easy, noio — I’ve awluz had it rough ! ” 

All knelt, and the dying Brand laid one hand on Phoebe’s 
bead. while she sobbed and prayed in an agony of grief ; and 
from his wrist the slung-shot hung before her, like a pendu- 
lum slowl}" settling to rest. But when they again stood 
around the bed, they saw that even those few moments had 
wrought a striking change. It seemed as if the Brand’s face 
lay under an ethereal veil, more filmy than the finest gossa- 
mer, and 3’et harder than a mask of steel, itself invisible, but 
shrinking down upon his features and imparting to them a 
mysterious solemnit3% An almost imperceptible tremor 
played over his temples, and his forehead was covered with 
little transparent beads. The widening pupils gave him a 
wild, frightened expression. Livid circles enclosed his e^^es, 
from which the lustre was fast fading, and a darkening 
shadow came creeping about his mouth. Beneath the skin, 
from head to foot, was a rapid, gentle oscillation, like the 
quiveiing of man}' muscles, or, rather, a vibration of the 
whole frame, as if the spirit within were struggling to burst 
its bonds or shuddering before its flight. 

“ How gay I feel ! ” he gasped. 

Then, holding one hand before his eyes, he whispered, 
“How s’runk they be ! Wot is it Phoebe? An’ my lan- 
terns — be they turning How dim they grow! Is 

the sundown past? Why don’t the atars shine out? Wot /s 
it, Phoebe? Oh ! tell me, sister wot pulls meatvay so 

fast?” 

A cry of anguish burst from Phoebe’s lips. 

“ Oh, dear brother, how can I tell you? Don’t you know? 
It’s the shadow in the valley — it is death.” 

“ A gay thing, to die,” murmured the Brand, as he folded 
his hands over the gaping wounds. “ I b’lieve it’s all rigged 
right.” 

“ A gay thing, to die,” he gasped, again. “ It’s a gor- 


424 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


geous shadder — beats the rainbow — an* the morning is 
breaking through.’* 

Could the departing spirit indeed so soon discern the dawn 
of an eternal day ; or was that glorious sunrise but a last 
effort of the brain to view some lingering image on the dying 
optic nerve? 

The Brand was alread}’’ be3^ond the reach of pain. His 
hands slipped from his bosom, and a wan smile flitted over 
his features. For a few moments nothing was heard but the 
fleeting breath and the smothered sobs of the awe-struck wit- 
nesses. Suddenly, the Brand turned his sightless eyes to- 
ward his sister, and faintly cried, — 

“ Kiss me wow, Phoebe, an’ kiss me when I’m fled ! ” 

■ She pressed her lips upon his brow, but he felt them not. 
He had passed into the shadow, and, from its earthward 
confines, could emerge never more. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 

Prosperity no longer waited on Gridly. His latest enter- 
prise had ended in disaster and well-nigh proved his last. 
Blind chance was it that thrust the axeman between him and 
the deadl}" slungshot. Not thus it seemed to the dying 
Brand, whose untutored tongue declared, in uncouth phrase 
but with a solemnity not soon forgotton, “God’s rigged it 
right ! ” 

Senseless raving we may suppose. And yet, so near that 
dread shadow, into whose unknown depths the speaker was 
even then departing, maj" be a wider, clearer vision, dis- 
closing things not discerned elsewhere. 

Nor scathless had Gridly escaped from the military. The 
elbow of his right arm was shattered by a rifle ball. Pain- 
ful, no doubt, beyond his previous experience, but, one 
would say, a light penalty'. Why did not the shot pierce his 
cruel heart? Such sudden mercy’ was vouchsafed many a 
lesser fiend. Perhaps the artful Patron had other counsels 


THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 


425 


for \\\s x>i'ot eg S. At all events, such notoriety as Gridl}" had 
won is not possessed without loss of rest ; and now had 
begun a new chase, wherein he was not the hunter but the 
game. He was wanted by those whom he desired not to 
see, and persistentlj^ looked for, day and night. Able he 
was, at baffling pursuit, and self-confident he had alwa3's 
been. But misfortune weakens self-reliance. He was 
preyed upon by forebodings of danger. Any approaching 
step might be the footfall of a messenger for him. The 
dandy loitering ahead might suddenl}’ turn, stretch forth 
that neatl3'-gloved hand, and fasten upon his collar the un- 
relaxing grasp of the Law. Even yonder priestly cassock 
could cover the handcuffs that waited to clasp his wrists. 
Wherever he skulked was peril of being clutched. He was 
now well known b3- sight to many fugitive criminals. 
Should he seek an as3dum among them, while his wound was 
liealing? Imprudent it seemed. Perhaps some fickle Friend 
would not scorn the wages of treachery, nor be slow to hand 
liim over. Unsafe to trust anybody, according to his belief, 
and especially those who were most like himself. Wiser 
were it, not to tarry long in one place. He slept not twice 
under the same roof. Besides detectives, others, too, were 
after him, — not onl3' upon his track but close at his side ; 
moving when he moved and stopping when he stopped ; 
visible alike to his wakeful eyes and in terrifying dreams. 
But the&e sleepless hunters laid no hand upon him, though 
alwa3"s within sight. Intangible they were, — unreal creat- 
ures of an overheated brain. SureU’’, the voiceless Snib was 
beneath the waves and, if smiling yet, unseen except by the 
fishes ; but a phantom counterpart of that fleshless frame 
abode still with her lord and master, — and spoke to him. 
Nor cheering was her monotone in his ear, alwa3^s crying, — 

“ With my black alpaca on, and not any tuberoses. I 
look taller in my other dress ; but tuberoses make me faint.’’ 

Ever a dutiful Snib, and now offering neither reproach nor 
complaint ; — only that silent, hideous, eternal laugh^ and 
the low, unvarying repetition, pleading for one last boon, — 
to be arrayed in her other dress, the beloved black alpaca. 

Another member of the shadowy band assumed the func- 
tions of a guide, looking back with e3’es that shot forth un- 
dying hate, and beckoning, as he glided on. 


426 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


“Old Jerry will fix you gay!” — the burden of this one’s 
ceaseless prophecy. 

Other fiitting ghosts came and went, but from these two 
Gridly was never free. Forth to the country he fied, and 
with him his spectral escort. A hundred miles his intended 
journe}', to a laige town in whose hospital he could find a 
secure retreat, and the surgical care he needed so much. 
Perhaps medicine could be had, also, to banish those phan- 
tasmal torments as well as to subdue his torturing pain. 
On foot he traveled, and in the garb of a vagabond. Several 
days had he been tramping, when at the approach of evening 
he sat down to rest, on the outskirts of a quiet village. 
The sun had set ; but the sk}" above and the whole landscape 
were still bright with the long, midsummer twilight, except 
in the west where dark, cumulus clouds were rapidly mount- 
ing. Many of the birds had already sought shelter from the 
coming shower, while others waited, finishing their evening 
repast. But the sweet vesper-hymns of these lingering 
songsters brought no peace to the ears now shuddering at 
the monotonous prayer of the phantom Snib, and the venge- 
ful voice of the ghostly Brand. 

It was a sultry day and Gridly had walked since sunilse, 
halting but seldom to lie down under some shady tree, then 
pushing on with dogged endurance. The next noon would 
bring him to his destination, — unless indeed he had already 
crossed his last earthly meridian. Fie was footsore and 
lame, as well as exhausted by the pain of his wounded arm 
and by the fever it had kindled. The injured limb he 
carried in a sling, unable otherwise to support its weight, 
and compelled to hold it in one position by the distress 
attending everj’ movement of the mutilated joint. At the 
margin of a brook he sat down to slake his thirst and, un- 
wrapping a roll of bread, tried to eat. A vain attempt, 
though he was weak from want of food. No taste had his 
parched palate, even could he have dismissed his unbidden 
guests. In his mouth the bread turned dry as ashes. 
Nought could he swallow but water from the brook, and 
brandy from the bottle which alone kept up his fiagging 
powers. He soaked his hair, and held his bare feet in the 
stream, to cool the hot blood that coursed through his 
throbbing veins. Remorse he knew not. But he quaked at 


THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 


427 


the illusive creations of his disordered fanc}’, while he raged 
at the mischance that had snatched away the fruit of his 
crimes. All gone were the riclies for which he had plotted 
so many years. The only comfort he could find was that the 
two who had thwarted him, and seized the proceeds of his 
villany, had paid into Ids liands the forfeit of their lives. An 
aching nerve provoked a flood of blasphemy — answered from 
the darkening west by a muffled bellow, as if some dread 
Voice within those murky clouds would not let such challenge 
pass unheeded. He cursed the stream that failed to quench 
his consuming thirst, and the warm, still air that could not 
cool his burning brow. The dark, fantastic, mountain masses 
gleamed wrathfully and roared aloud, advancing with the 
speed of wind, and towering, imminent, as if preparing to hurl 
tlieir might upon the godless wretch. Over the fading land- 
scape a livid hue spread swiftly. The sportive insects all 
had vanished, and the last of the birds sped away. A re- 
freshing blast swept from the air its stifling heat. Incessant 
flashes lighted earth and sky, and the heavens shook with 
rolling echoes. Gridh^ must soon find shelter. With a last 
insatiable draught, he rose and limped on, seeking a house 
where he could spend the night. Of his spectral attendants, 
two forsook him not, — the faithful Snib and the beckoning 
Brand. Not far off he had marked a vsecluded farm-house, 
and thither he hastened. Chance was it that led him, or 
some secret design of his tutelary Jerry? In that solitary 
dwelling lived Deacon Biggot. 

All day the deacon had been gone from home, wandering 
alone in the woods. The sun was sinking behind the rising 
clouds when he came stalking from a neighboring swamp, up 
through the home lot, like some gaunt, brain-sick anchorite, 
crying aloud, — 

‘‘ Repent ! The Kingdom is at hand !” 

Neither meat nor drink had he tasted that da3^ Insensible 
he was to hunger, thirst, or fatigue. His coarse, dingy gar- 
ments were splashed with mud and torn b}'’ thorns. A har- 
ness strap supplied the leathern girdle for his waist. His 
head was covered only by his matted hair, and his rugged 
countenance shone as with diabolic inspiration. Upon the 
doorstep his wife sat waiting and, as he climbed over the 
fence near by, she ran to meet him. Catching one of his 


428 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


brawny hands in hers, she searched his face for some trace 
of returning sanity. 

“ Husband,” she said in a soothing tone, “ will you come 
in now ? Supper is ready.” 

Gone from his shoulders was the load of his invisible pack. 
His tongue had forgotten its quavering bleat. Erect he 
strode, with imperious voice and threatening mien, like a 
stern prophet of Doom. 

“ Come, dear husband ! ” repeated the trembling Marthy, 
“ the tea will do you good ; come and rest.” 

He stopped, irresolute, his clumsy fingers picking at imag- 
inary insects fioatiiig in the air, and gazed at his wife with 
eyes that seemed to roll in blood. Throwing his arms aloft 
with a wild gesture, he cried, — 

“ Tm a spirit! I’m a prophet! I’m the herald of the 
Kingdom ! Repent ! or He will laugh at your calamities. 
Ha-iia ! Ha-ha ! ” 

No human lips replied. Had some glad fiend found 
speech ? Back came the echo : — 

“Ha-ha! Ha-ha-a-a ! ” 

To the maniac that answer was the jeering voice of a ma- 
lignant spirit — some dweller in the air whom he feared not 
to face. Again he uttered his frightful laugh, and once 
more the mocking devil responded : — 

“Ha-ha! Ha-ha-a-a!” 

A stouter heart than Marthy ’s might- well have trembled. 
But she stepped to her husband’s side, wound her arms around 
him, and leaned her head against his bosom. It was as if 
she knelt upon the arena, and would kiss the tiger. Won- 
derful the fortitude, and deathless the love, in that gentle 
breast. Up to the savage face she turned her eyes, and her 
compassionate tears fell like rain. Close to her wan cheek 
she pressed the claws that could rend her limb from limb. 
Fondly she clasped the wild beast, as if she would embrace 
impending death. 

“Come, dear heart,” she sobbed; “do come in now. 
You are tired and sick — oh, so sick! Don’t wait in the 
damp air ! Come and rest 3'our poor, weary head ! ” 

lie made no answer but knelt and pra^^ed, in rapid inco- 
herent sentences, broken by heavy groans. But Marthy 
rested one hand on his shoulder and stood weeping, bowed 


THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 


429 


with overwhelming cares, and white-haired with untold sor- 
rows. Suddenly, he sprang up and began picking at the air 
again, and brushing iinaginaiy insects from his face. 

“Spirit-flies,” he muttered; “of silver, of gold, and of 
purple, — their wings striped black and green, and scorpion 
stings in their mouth. The air is full. They sing like bells 
in my ears. They creep and crawl, and bore into my heart, 
always whispering, whispering, whispering . Heralds of evil 
are they. Well do I know them, whence they come. 
Wicked thoughts, swarming from yon red eye — the flaming 
eye of Lucifer, Prince of the Air and Son of the Darkness. 
Straight from his evil eye the}^ fly to the hearts of heedless 
mortals, to dwell there and breed a host. Their offspring- 
are sinful deeds. Black and green are their wings striped, 
for they come and go, always moving, moving, moving, be- 
tween the green earth and the black pit. They are clothed 
in raiment of gold, of silver, and of purple, like the Children 
of Light. But they are sons of Satan, and their scorpion 
stings are dipped in the poison of the second death.” 

Again Marthy besought him to come in. But he pointed 
to the house, and cried in a startling voice : — 

“Woman, what have I to do with thee? Go in peace! 
To-day shalt thou sup in Paradise,” 

Fearful of crossing the madman’s Vill, Marthy withdrew 
to the house. But he continued striding back and forth, 
tossing his arms wildly, and kneeling in vehement prayer. 
His whole form writhed as if a brood of devils had made 
lodgment within, and were tearing him, — demons to be cast 
out onl}’ b}'’ death. Poor, bewildered, agonizing soul ! Life- 
long prisoner in the barriers of his narrow creed, and crushed, 
at last, under heavy shackles ! Faithful had he been, accord- 
ing to his clearest discernment, and zealous with his best en- 
deavor. No earthl^^ delights could allure him, nor any 
tempter’s wiles decoy him, from the mouldy trench which he 
believed the only path to a heavenly home ; nor could any 
human power force him from the deep- worn rut in which he 
loved to plod. Unbending he was, as the rocks of his 
native soil, for in his veins ran stubborn blood that could 
have sustained him, smiling, at the stake, or led him to chain 
a neighbor there. Presently he walked to the wall that 
bounded one side of his premises, selected a block of stone. 


430 


A YOVNG DISCIPLE. 


carried it to the kitchen, and laid it in the great fireplace. 
He then brought others, working as fast as he could, until ho 
had built an altar that filled the entire depth and width of 
the space, and projected over the hearth. To no purpose 
his wondering, anxious wife tried to divert his attention from 
the surprising task. In vain she besought him to rest. 
He paid no heed to her. But when the altar was completed, 
he laid armful after armful of dry wood carefully thereon. 
Marthy, watching all these strange preparations with grow- 
ing alarm, strove to persuade him to partake of his untasted 
food. But he seemed not to hear. Each stick he arranged 
in its place, and every crevice he stuffed with straw, or with 
chips and splinters. That extraordinaiy task done, he 
found a clothes-line, and cut it in pieces which he placed 
before the altar. Marth}" sat patiently waiting at the supper- 
table. She was shivering, despite the heat, and although 
she made weak pretence of observing nothing unusual. 
She coaxed her husband to sit down and, with a sad smile, 
remarked that the fire would be ready to light in the morn- 
ing. A peal of thunder rumbled and reverberated in the 
distance. The deacon listened, in an attitude of profound 
reverence, till it died away. Then, lighting a candle, and 
taking up one of the cords, he stood before his wife. In a tone 
of deepest tenderness, but with awful solemnity, he said, — 

“ Marthy, knowest thou not how God commanded Abra- 
ham to sacrifice his onl}* son? Even thus has He this day 
commanded me to offer up the wife of my bosom.” 

Marthy felt the blood curdle in her veins. She would have 
shrieked for help, but her voice was gone, — her tongue par- 
alyzed with sudden horror. The maniac bound her, hand and 
foot, and lashed her fast to the chair. She made no struggle, 
but her eyes fixed themselves, staring and motionless, on her 
husband’s face as though fascinated by some frightful appari- 
tion, and her thin lips moved in silent prayer. He gave the 
first kiss she had known for months, then w'ound a bandage 
round her mouth, and planted himself before her with eyes 
that burned like coals of fire, while his bosom heaved with 
wild tumult, and his hands compressed his head as if they 
would crush it. 

“ Take Thou me.'” he groaned. “Let thy servant fall, 
upon Thine holy altar ! ” 


THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 


431 


Devouring his wife with frantic kisses, again he cried 
aloud, “ Take Thou the cup from my lips ! This cup of sor- 
row, O Father, how can I drink?” 

Near and far, the air now flamed with quick, successive 
flashes, and the house trembled to the rolling thunder. Sud- 
denly, the maniac started back, with upraised hands and hor- 
ror-struck face, while a mighty shudder swept through him. 
The next instant, he was striding back and forth again, 
tossing his arms aloft. Some lingering spark of reason 
lighted up the scene a moment and went out forever. The 
madman dashed himself against the wall, then caught up a 
knife, as though that last glimmer had spurred him to take 
his own life before he should surrender to the ungovernable 
impulse. Again he threw himself on his knees and prayed 
in agony. But when he rose, it was with a calmness even 
more terrible than his stormy delirium. It announced his 
submission to the fearful delusion. Laying one hand on his 
wife’s shoulder, he cried, in a resolute voice, — 

“ Marthy, it is the command of God, — we must obey.” 

An awful silence ensued while he drew the bonds tighter, 
and upon Marthy’s temples the seal of death seemed already 
pressed. The first drops came pattering on the roof. A 
sudden knock sounded at the door, an^ a stranger dragged 
himself painfully in. It was Gridly. Before his eyes had 
taken in the scene he said, — 

“ Good people, can you give me a lodging to-night?” 

But the deacon, pointing at him in an ecstasy of triumph- 
ant faith, cried, — 

“Marthy, behold the hand of God! Lo! He hath pro- 
vided an offering. As unto Abraham even so hath He done 
unto His faithful servant. Yea, a burnt-offering hath He pro- 
vided for His altar.’’ 

Affrighted at his ferocious mien, no less than by his singu- 
lar language and the sight of the woman gagged and bound, 
Gridly recoiled and would have fled. Too late. Like a 
leaping tiger the maniac was upon him. Frantic the strug- 
gle, but soon ended. Easier to escape from the tiger’s claws 
than from that madman’s clutch. The strength of ten was 
concentrated in his single arm. No wild beast could be 
more fierce, no demon more merciless. Help there was none 
for Gridly, unless by a stroke of lightning, — and that soon. 


432 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


Resistance roused the madman to frenzy. He hurled his 
shuddering victim to the floor and stood, pressing one foot 
upon his neck, while he glared down at him with blazing eyes, 
and uttered a hiss the like of which was never heard but from 
the lips of a maniac. And that appalling sound told the 
murderer that his life hung by a hair. His wounded arm, 
doubled under him, throbbed with agony, but to that his 
senses were benumbed, so palsied was he with terror. His 
widening eyes stared up, as at some Gorgon whose hideous 
aspect was turning his flesh to stone. Gray and withered 
grew his skin, as if seared by that burning gaze. His left 
hand shook with spasms and slid into his bosom. But it 
came forth again, clenched fast to the handle of a knife 
whose blade was rusted and red, from point to hilt, with the 
blood of the Brand. In vain. Stooping, the maniac seized 
him b}^ wrist and elbow, and snapped the bones of his arm 
across his knee. A shriek burst from Gridly’s lips, audible 
above the crashing thunder, while his knife dropped, clinking, 
upon the floor. He siruggled up to a sitting posture, then 
fell back, fainting. When conciousness returned the madman 
was winding him with a rope, from the feet upward. Swiftly 
and silently the cord encircled him, loop after loop, until he 
lay as still as death itself, except a convulsive quivering 
where the strangulated muscles swelled up between the con- 
stricting folds. The rain now poured in torrents. Rebound- 
ing echoes filled the heavens with an unceasing roar. Close 
by, the zigzag lightning played, in long, dazzling bolts, 
splitting the air with a sharp, terrific crackle, as though 
rending the solid earth. Useless all cries for help. No 
traveler was abroad on that lonely road. From thence, no 
human voice could reach human ears, except those already 
on the stage of that dreadful tragedy. 

How now, Peter Gridly ! shivering? The night is not cold. 
Fear is upon thee, one would suppose, — nay, th}' brain is 
reeling with terror. One hour ago th}- fury bestirred itself 
at thought of lost plunder. Now, couldst thou but wrench 
thyself awa}", all the untold pillage of the world would seem 
to thee but dust. Thou art in the presence of the “spirit,” 
— a spirit more cruel than even thy own unrelenting heart. 
Confronted by the “prophet” art thou — one whom thy 
ribald tongue might call a Royal- Arch prophet, of some 


THE VAMPIRE TAKES FLIGHT. 


433 


mystic rite and of a high degree, couldst thou but view him 
from a distance — and it seemeth not unlikely that l‘e could 
foretell thy speedy doom. By the “ herald of the Kingdom ” 
art thou summoned — • such herald as thy horror-stricken eyes 
never thought to behold, in this world or elsewhere — the 
harbinger of an unknown kingdom, upon whose dread con- 
fines thj^ unwilling feet now stumble. How is it with thee? 
Seest thou not some poor swart soul around whose neck 
thy rope is noosed? Hearest thou now his vain prayer? 
Couldst thou but flee ! But further flight is not for thee, 
thou vampire ! Thy wings are clipped. Curse, if it can 
avail ! Pray to thy guardian Jerry, if thou wilt, but howl 
not for mercy here ! 

Tne maniac rolled his victim like a bundle to the chimney 
and laid him upon the altar. From the mantel he took a can 
of oil, and poured a copious libation over him and over the 
wood and straw upon which he was lying. Incapable of 
speech or motion, Marthy witnessed these horrible prepara- 
tions and prayed, in silent agony, for some miraculous in- 
terposition. But Gridly, utterly prostrated at last, presented 
a spectacle upon which no eye, except a madman^s, could 
have looked unmoved. His hands were swelling fast and 
were stained a deep, leaden color with impeded circulation. 
His face was tumid and disfigured. Quite prominent, now, 
were those mean gray -green eyes, hitherto so deep-set and 
so small. The last of the liquid pendulums had swung 
beneath his chin. No longer clanked his iron tongue. Gone 
was the brassy hardness from his lips. His nostrils expanded 
with violent efforts to inflate the lungs, while his chest heaved 
desperately to break the clasp of those unyielding coils. 

Again the deacon knelt in pra3"er ; and over Gridl}^, in 
those few moments, rolled cycles of torture. The black 
pages of fraud and crime which made up the history of his 
life, unfolded themselves before him like a swift panorama. 
Around him gathered the phantoms of his murdered victims. 
Plainly could he see the fleshless features of the miserable 
Snib, set rigid in that silent, bony, eternal laugh, and clearly 
could he hear her patient, dreary plea : — 

“ With my black alpaca on; and not any tuberoses; and my 
hair done very plain ” 

At sound whereof, he could feel the chill of death at his 


434 


A YOUNG DISGIPLN. 


heart. And^ once again, the shrill voice of the Brand rang 
like a knell in his ears : — 

“ Old Jerry will fix you gay ! ” 

His lips grew thinner and whiter, crawling away from the 
chattering teeth. Hollow and distressful his voice came 
gasping out : — 

“ Neighbor, is it murder 9 Would you murder me?” 

The deacon rose. A moment he stood, grinning, then 
grasped his sides while he doubled himself forwards and 
back, and shook from head to foot with frenzied laughter. 
“Ha-ha! Ha-ha!” he shouted; “I will laugh at your 
calamities ! ” The next instant he was again the stern 
messenger of doom. “God calleth for atonement!” he 
raved. “Dost thou not hear9 Who am I< that I should 
disobey Him? Yea, though He slay me in His wrath, yet 
will I obey. I’m a spirit ! I’m a prophet ! I’m the herald 
of the Kingdom / ” 

Terrifying indeed was the sight' of the madman, and quite 
frightful his voice, as he ended with a shriek. But less 
tolerable to Gridly that spectral pair, waiting so patiently — 
ever repeating one vengeful prophecy and the. same dreary 
plea. The flickering candle shed a dim light on the awful 
scene. This the maniac snatched, to kindle his sacrifice. 
But he drew back and replaced it on the table. For the last 
time he knelt, facing the altar, and cried in a loud voice, — 

“ O Thou who boldest the lightning in the hollow of Thy 
hand ! Thou who didst let fall Thy sacred fire upon the 
altar of Thy prophet Elijah — ” 

Hushed was the solemn invocation, as at the crack of an 
infernal whip. Down the chimney, and beneath the mur- 
derer, darted a long, narrow, thrilling beam of blinding 
light. Point-blank it shot through the kneeling devotee, 
skipped lightly over the chair where sat his fainting wife, 
and slit the opposite wall, as though some demoniac hand 
had cleft the house with one fell sweep of his fiery lash. 
There was a shiver of the whole building, a rattling of 
sashes and a jingling of glass. Simultaneously with the 
hissing stroke, the knives and forks danced and^spavkled 
upon the table, while every piece of metal in the . room cor- 
ruscated with dazzling, purple rays ; — and the, smell of that 
infernal whip was like fumes from a sulphurous .pit. 


THE DAISIES KNOW. 


435 


Marthy’s head rested easily against the back of her chair. 
The bonds were torn from her limbs. As in a deep sleep 
she reclined, breathing quietly but totally unconscious. The 
deacon had not moved nor ever would, again. Silent and 
still he knelt, like some barbarian priest, petrified in the act 
of prayer. His troubled heart was at peace, his stormy soul 
'at rest.* To his sick brain death had come with healing 
touch, and found him in the attitude his unclouded wishes 
would have chosen. Gridly alone was unharmed. Quick 
to discover the fate of the madman, he vented his joy in jubilant 
oaths. Had his tutelary Terr}" rescued him ? Probabl}" not. 
A little cone of fiame was shining among the billets of dry 
w^ood. Slowly it climbed from straw to straw, and fell down, 
and died away almost to a spark ; but it revived and crept 
up again, tipped with a spiral plume of smoke, and ran along 
the altar, snapping spitefully. Reproductive it was, too, 
soon giving birth to a little fiery brood that quickl^^ scattered, 
hungering for their nourishment. Now rose frantic screams, 
vying with the deafening volleys of the clouds. Many hot, 
greed}^ tongues were busy with their prey. Like rodent 
teeth they gnawed his feet ; they played about his throat ; 
they licked his face and caught his hair. Upon his breast 
they leaped and frolicked, then hashed into a blazing torrent 
that rushed up the chimney with a glad roar ; and forth on 
that raging tide sped the last breath of Peter Gridly, self- 
convicted vampire, and self-styled party of the first and the 
last part. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE DAISIES KNOW. 

The glory of an October sunset again rests upon the village, 
filling the western sky with splendor, while through the vivid 
light that yet veils her beaut}", faintly appears the broad 
harvest-moon, like a thin disc of melting snow, far away in 
the deep blue of the eastern horizon. Long shadows stretch 
over the silent meadows, where troops of blithe swallows no 
longer career in mad frolic, and windows that catch the level 


436 


A YOUNG DISCTPLE. 


rays shine like golden mirrors. Gone from the hunt are the 
dusky swifts, and above the chimneys where they were wont 
to wheel and tumble, wreaths of light gray smoke circle, and 
rise, and fade, in the still air. The wide landscape slumbers 
under the drowsy enchantment of the Indian summer. In 
the woods the bluejays have ceased their piercing screams, 
and the squirrels have hushed their bickering. The silence 
of the forest is broken only by a rustle when some wild 
denizen stirs the crisp leaves in search of fallen nuts, save 
where the dry twigs snap beneath the feet of a returning 
sportsman, or the double report of his gun follows the whiz- 
zing flight of a partridge. The flelds are sere and bleached by 
frost, and the cattle have left the close-cropped tufts of green 
under the trees to congregate in patient groups at the bars. 
Deserted by the robins are the naked orchards ; but the flock- 
ing quails still chirp and whistle, from dun thickets that 
border the cornflelds and the patches of stubble. Gray 
rushes hang in a tangled fringe over the banks of the 
Wepawaiig, where the wood-duck and the teal have come back, 
to dive among the lily pads. There are the two white 
churches, flanking the mill-pond with towering turret and 
slender spire, the varnished dome of the one, and the gilt 
star of the other, glistening in the sunlight. The bridge 
between them is abandoned by the boys, for the sullen fish 
now lie close to the bed of the river, nor will they I'ise at the 
most tempting bait. Bleak and bare stands the district 
school-house, with no perceptible change, except that upon 
it have been dashed more bottles of ink, and fresh intaglios 
attest the industry of young artists. And there the little 
rascals are now, lurking behind the stone wall, with flushed 
cheeks and throbbing hearts, in vengeful ambush. Presently, 
the belated master comes out and walks briskly away. With 
bated breath they watch through the chinks of the wall, till 
he disappears over the brow of the hill. Their leader then 
counts, “One; two; th-ree!” and at the word, the}^ sound 
their shrill war-whoop, and let fly a volley of stones against 
the dingy structure. The next instant they are off wdth 
loud paeans, to a neighboring copse. From the opposite 
side they emerge with mud-covered shoes, and loiter across 
the fields, disputing about the accuracy of their aim, and 
determining the precise points on the master’s countenance 


THE DAISIES KNOW. 


437 


whore they will inflict repeated bruises, when they shall be 
ten \ ears older. The eldest of the number can remember 
Deacon Biggot’s reign. He assures them that they may be 
forever thankful to their stars that the deacon went craz3\ 
No thicket of alders nor jungle of brambles that ever existed, 
he declares, would have screened them from his cruel green 
eyes or sheltered them from his clutch. He would have 
hunted them through swamp and glen, and dug them out of 
their burrows in distant ha^^-lofts, to the very last one. And 
in that case they may just conjecture, if they can, what the}^ 
would have suffered. If they don’t believe him, he stands 
ready to wager a sum compared to which the mines of 
Golconda are a trifle. What is more, he was not surprised 
in the least when he heard that the deacon had been struck 
by lightning. It was what he had always expected and, for 
his part, he thought it served him right. 

The}^ have their traditions of celebrated ones who flourished 
in the district-school in those dark ages, — traditions of hand- 
some Phoebe Young, of Dan the hero, of Pinchey the cheat, 
and of Jackedo the Firebrand. The story of the Brand, and 
the awful fate of the unknown traveler, whose charred body 
was found among the ashes and embers, have invested the 
deacon’s premises with unnatural fascination. It is a longer 
way home, but they cross the fields to the road that leads by 
the house, hoping for a glimpse of the fireplace where the 
altar was built. Nothing could tempt them to venture there 
but that they know that the lightning made sure work of the 
maniac. As they pass, they would cackle and crow at the 
homely figure gathering chips in the yard but that it is old 
Marthy. They can understand that her cup of sorrow is full, 
and a vague compassion forbids them to add one drop of 
bitterness. They stand on tiptoe only a moment, to peer 
through the window, and then stroll off to their homes. 

And there is the old house where Phoebe lived with her 
aunt, — the little red cottage in the bend of the road at the 
edge of the meadows, where in early autumn the waving 
golden-rod reaches awa}^ to the river. But the climbing 
roses that twined round the doors, no longer follow the 
training hand of their gentle mistress, and the blushing col- 
umbines have nodded themselves to their long, annual sleep. 
The evergreen cedars send their wide shadow creeping toward 


438 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


the Wepawaug, and the great chestnut tree still overhangs 
the jutting ledge where Phoebe was rescued by Dan and the 
Brand. There is the lane, too, where Dan and Phoebe used to 
ramble hand-in-hand, with its crumbling stone walls, its russet 
hedges of hazel and sweetbrier, its moss-clad boulders, and its 
long row of maples, lifting their stately cones. The bark of 
the largest is graven with capitals, where boyish lovers have 
linked their sweethearts’ names with their own, as upon an 
enduring tablet. But the expanding trunk has torn asunder 
many of those fond mementos, as the ruthless years have 
separated hearts once united. Of those fair young sweet- 
hearts, some sleep in the village church-yard, and not a few 
are gray-haired spinsters, forgotten and forlorn, whose once 
ardent lovers have found other mates, or roam alone, over 
land and sea. But among those reeling, distorted letters, 
may 3^ou find the names of' Dan and Phoebe, wedded and 
blended together by the growth of the tree. 

At the end of the lane, on the summit of the lawn which 
slopes to the river, stands Phoebe’s second home. The old 
mansion is newly painted. Its ragged chimne^^s and 
weather-worn porches are built up again. The gravel walks 
are neat and trim, the garden tid^y, and the lovety autumn 
fiowers bloom all over the yard — sure testimony that Mrs. 
Babbon is not far off. The poverty-stricken appearance of 
the old homestead has given way to signs of plenty, for 
unto it has returned the prosperity of former days, — the 
prosperity that dwelt there before its threshold was crossed 
by Gridl3^ On the piazza stands Mr. Babbon, chatting 
with the honored pastor, — him of the genial, glowing face, 
of the chin-bandage of white whisker, and the halo of white 
hair. Benevolence beams from every feature of the re- 
spected minister’s countenance, unclouded b^’ a single 
shadow. A galling thorn has been plucked from his flesh. 
Deacon Biggot torments him no longer. Never more shall 
his stud,y grow wearisome with the incubus of the metaphor- 
ical pack, nor shall it be discordant with gasping and holy 
bleating. Never again shall his household be upturned by 
his zealous subordinate, with the rude ploughshare of his 
heavenly husbandry, and for the last time has the heavy 
harrow of censure been driven over his domestic affairs by 
the tottering deacon. Late in his faithful ministry has come 


THE DAISIES KNOW. 


4;)i) 


the time when he ma^' enjoy a hearty laugh and none to 
warn him of sinful levity ; when himself and his family may 
share some of life’s luxuries and none to rebuke him for 
wicked extravagance. The miasma of his atmosphere is 
removed forever. And a single glance at Mr. Babbon 
shows that a final stop has been put to the ravages of the 
canker-worm. His well-worn clothing is replaced bj^ new 
attire, and his former dignity of carriage has returned. The 
deep furrows around his eyes and mouth will never be 
smoothed away ; but his face has lost that rigid look of a 
hard, gaunt mask, and wears again the old expression of 
self-reliance. He has regained that sanguine,, cheerful 
countenance, familiar to all his friends before he was fastened 
upon by the Vampire. And it surprises him to see how 
many friends he has. Those who covertly insulted and de- 
famed him not long ago, cannot praise him enough, and 
some who hunted him, with demands for settlement, now 
urge him to borrow. It is wonderful to see what an impor- 
tant personage he has become in the church, among whose 
communicants his wife is enrolled, and of whose society he 
is an energetic member. In all secular matters pertaining 
to the church’s welfare, he is looked to for counsel and pe- 
cuniary help. In politics, too, his views are once more 
deemed correct. His fellow-citizens believe him worth}’- of 
exalted ofiScial position. It is generally acknowledged that 
he is a man of great force of character, as well as of a pro- 
found, practical education. He is cited in evidence that the 
village can produce able men. There are very many, too, 
who regard his moral character as especially excellent. He 
is not a clmrch-member,. to be sure, because always voted 
down by good Deacon Biggot, who was very careful that no 
wolf slipped in by the gate or leaped over the wall. But, 
nevertheless,' a consistent Christian they think, in his belief 
and manner of life, and if active works rated as high as 
windy faith probably a better man, on the whole, than 
Deacon Biggot. Nea^ him stands his wife, her nervous 
springs wound tolerably tight for these latter daj's, by the 
joyful agitation incident to a ceremony that has just been 
concluded. She is receiving the congratulations of the 
medicine-man. 

“ A promising couple, a very promising couple,” he reiter- 


440 


A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 


ates. “Par ndbile^ par nobilissime. A splendid young 
man, and a better match he couldn’t have, the world over. 
Well-mated, Mrs. Babbon, well-mated., and they will find it 
out, tuto., cito, et jucunde.^’ 

The doctor’s place in Mrs. Babbon’s esteem was always 
secure, but it is further fortified by this fresh evidence of 
his learning, for the worthy lady is unable to compare the 
average medical Latin of the nineteenth century with the 
language of Cicero. She is no less accomplished, however, 
in offering tribute to his scholarship than he is skilful in the 
art of saying pleasant things. But now she forgets to burn 
her grateful incense upon the altar of his wisdom. Ideas 
associated with his presence are directing her motherly e3’es 
to a prospective view. 

“Yes,” she replies, “I’m sure the\^ are well matched. 
The\’ have good blood and sound constitutions, and I don’t 
care if they are dreadfully quick tempered. They’ll get 
along together just as w^ell, and do their part in the w'orld all 
the better. But, doctor, sometimes in healthy families there 
are occasions when the phj^sician is needed — or, if not, 
there ought to be — and 3^011 know we shall alwa3"s depend 
upon you.” 

The medicine-man was not obtuse. With a twinkle of the 
eyes he replied : “ In due time, Mrs. Babbon, in due time, 
and you will alwa3's find me read3% I do indeed assure 3’ou.” 

Thereupon he departed, expanding a polynomial bow as 
he went, and remarking, sotto voce., “Yes, yes; the3’ will 
find it out, citissime et jucundissime; but I say it strictly 
inter 

Well pleased is Mrs. Babbon, for her son’s choice is also 
her own. She knows of sound Puritan blood in Phoebe’s 
veins, and in that her unshaken trust takes root, as her faith 
clings to the Rock of Ages. But however tight her main- 
spring is wound, the soothing presence of the serene Mr. 
Jonquil would of itself suffice to prevent her running down. 
Aside from that, her fretfulness has .been subdued at last. 
Luxurious vines and blooming shrubs now cover the cliff of 
her Christian fortitude with all its sharp angles. Her strong- 
hold is there, indeed, impregnable as ever, but hidden 133’ 
fruit and flowers. Not man3’ silver threads can 3^1 count in 
her jet-black hair, nor any dimness can 3^ou descry in those 


THE DAISIES KNOW. 


441 


glittering coal-black e3-es. Well-ordered is her life, and thus 
it has been alwa^'s. Obedient to the unwritten code of 
Nature, as well as to the precepts of her religion, her natural 
force has not abated, nor will, for many years. And then, at 
last, without hint, or fear, or pain, or sickness, will come 
that last sleep from which the awakening can be, for her, 
not otherwise than glorious. 

Sitting at her window, under the dome of the might}’^ elm, 
is a matchless j^oung queen of grace and beaut}', her fair 
cheeks blushing with a healthful tide and impressed with the 
unmistakable charm of innocence, dressed with what elegance 
refinement may demand of wealth, radiant with pure and per- 
fect happiness. It is Phoebe. Once before have we seen her 
sitting there, gazing with indescribable yearning through the 
trees, and far awa}’ over the hills, to the north-eastern 
horizon, while the rising sun flashed his bright beams before 
her, but lighted not the darkness of her despair, while merry 
, birds filled all the air with gleeful notes which could not cheer, 
and the giant elm mocked her grief with its thousand tongues. 
But now her hair is bound with orange blossoms. The day- 
light is fading in the west, but in her heart has fairl}' dawned 
a clear morning whose bright noon lies far away, and one 
which, to her discernment, can have no sunset. Her hand is 
locked in Dan’s, with the old, familiar clasp, as when he 
used to lead their rambles through the fields. With playful 
pretence of imparting some weighty secret, he brings his lips 
close to her ear, and whispers a question which she never 
tires of hearing, nor he of asking. 

Wondrous witciuiraft has that fair enchantress in her eyes, 
and sweet magic on her tongue. Though herself en- 
chanted, she has learned a potent charm, that weaves her 
captive in a mystic web, and knits him fast to her loving 
heart. 

“The daisies told you, long ago,” she softly answers; 
“and now we are sure the saying’s true; — the daisies 
know.'* 


THE END. 


t 




_ * sx 


• h;* ’ I 

r '^♦*4. I 

, I ^ \ V 

•“ .1 - ^ > ' 


4 

> * 


I ^ 




i t 

^ • . 

) 


« • 

/ 


■• / 


■ \ 


✓ ' 


^ A. 

► .-• *• 


t I 


■«' «> 


- ^ 


. I • 

, k 

V * 


, p 

A 


■.vv;.v^ if;u ji a t\^^ , 

\ 

» ^ 

.. 


,v • 


ii/.-f iV 




■•^:''vr :V4- r/yiJH nj. 

■/ ^ .v4.} ■^'^1*. , .i<,. .U'*i»r, Aj 

* . r . . » - . . - 


• 


0 

• i* 




"V * * /' 'U "^' '* ' 

‘•t* . w- . 4-4 »/ r#j 


. - • r " • *• 

^ T 1 *, • 

1 -• . 


cT.. 






i I hi/ i?:^ 


; j * • , • 


,» • 
►. -' 


iVt 


t IM jj u’j > 


- ^ < V V •ji-t.f' 

^ * f * * 

, ■i''-^'- -. -.i >i«';T(i;-i,i.'*; : 

': . . } '* ■ 

7, ,..: :il il - 

'^■* •. s ■ ■ ■ ■ ^ 

■’‘7' * \ 

^ 1 • * 

' • ‘li- 'Jhli j fv. JA.Jt‘W£ri'h' . t--;: -A'..;-'! 

' ,_ ■ t :r:<'ni.;v} ^ :^; u:i; ’:.Ci .t 
^ ^ • - - Tv-* r., 

i ' ■ '. V; M. ^ *.-i -; . r 

.. * ' • 


W j 


i J 
# • 


• * r 


<■*•*►*• 'I 






‘k 

A 


?t 


■t^i 


• I 






v>' A 

■'ll I ^ 




»> * > 

*. ». 


.» : ; Wtvo 

’ * % ’ 


-K 


► ^ f • 

• 

» / 

■ r V ■ 

# 

' • « 

m 

' V J ' 

7 •r’-k 

* * • 

•' . , t 

V 

\ 




. ' • 
f A 

» > 

V‘ 


.’ r 


>v^\i a 


9 

** rt 


’ \ 


• k 


<• 




rAiki 


'i 




•V# . i //u» 


f/ * 

• ' .w> .IT'..^ -»li-‘.,»w;a..;«: ;• / ‘ . * i 


» • ** , • 

■ U ' • .. >. I (\ ,^., _ •••■..^v, , ,'.•«, , ■ - 

'.t : ''V !V . ^ . :^ 

J •. -X^. 

■■• ‘-4 


• I 


‘ • • ^ 


V , 


1-. 




• -< " /w . 




I i 


^ 4* 


4 T 




t • 


• * > M >^4 

* 


« « 

d^^ (.» • ‘ ■* , f 

X *‘ • - 

• • 


• ■ I 


• * 


.. . Vi 1. i ■ ;• ' /• 



•• >»• 

«• 




.t 


4. 


.n r, * 

. J* 


• ' 




t . 


f 4 

*^L 


^':,ir;' .•;i^ 

* > cxr 


U 


• % " 


ijy 




^ ■■ 9 
• J-% t W 


-4 .. -<f 'i,.-; 

4* - - /* ^ ‘ i f 

-f :i 

• — ^S' > r^:: 


r i C 


« » 


.) • 


V •■ 



4i * 


I 


# 

Iv * 




- ^ •:i'\Sv/ vr /;• 

ij V 'Tv^*m .>■ 




I ' i.. 


' ^ "'7 ;; ifi 't: 

. « 


Vs '. +7\5i»i r '•<: L.' ■ .r .-.- -*-, ,i ., 


• K 



i 






t ' 


1 

- .jf: 




» U I 


" I 4 
» 





■I 


.t 


'It* r» ^ . : 




• r 

>• k 


.... . 


f* 
•' k' 


•i. 


t • ■ ’ 

'.Ai ’-f, Cfli.!? V 

H 

■ • ■ T 


' f 


^7' 


V I 

-•<«, „ 

» - 


>• ; 
I 


> > 


( - 


i.^ 


J/ 


•/ 


I ; 


y » . 


A. 


4' . 


>r, * . 

/?_■'"- 


> k ji. 



. * 


: / 


- 1 




• ^ 


t 

* « 
v». 


V* .» 


I. 


’\u\ . 


\ 

s. . J- 


" k* 
( 


"W. B. si.d;iTia; &; oo.’s 

NEW BOOKS. 


W. B. S, & CO. publish the largest list of Popular Ameriean Novels 
of any house in the world. 


Cloth Novels. 

[For Paper Novels see “ Satchel Series” List ] 


After Many Years. Boggs $1.50 

Armour. C. H. Anderson 1.00 

A Sunny Life. Broomfield 1.00 

A Windfall. A. T. Perry 1.00 

A Young Disciple. In press 1.25 

Berrisford. Mrs. Sanford 1.50 

Boscobel. Florida Story 1.00 

Buccaneers. Randolph Jones 1.50 

Circumstantial Evidence. Alice Ir. 

Ting Abbott 1.25 

Deacon Cranky, the Old Sinner 1,50 

French Exiles of Louisiana. Lindsay. 1.00 

Glendover. Dean Roscoe 1.00 

Hammock Stories — Three 1.25 ‘ 

Her Waiting Heart. Capsadell 1.00 

His Wife’s Relations. Steele 1.00 

Hubbub. E. C. Currier 1.00 

In Dead Earnest. Breckenridge 1.25 

Minister’s Daughter. McMichael. . . . 1.00 

Once. Rev. M. S. Hageman 1.00 

Our Wedding Gifts. Amanda Doug- 
las 1.00 

Saddest of All is Loving. Sale 1.00 

Shadowed Perils. M. A. Avery 1 00 

Snap. T. Buchanan Price 1.00 

Spoopendyke. Humorous Sketches. 
310,000 sold in 7 months. Cloth..-. 1.00 

Summer Boarders. Garragues 1.00 

Thump’s Client. C. D. Enight. 1.50 

*Twixt Wave and Sky. F. E. Wad- 
leigh 1.25 

Philosophy and Religion. 

Ages to Come. E. Adkins, D. D. . . .$1.50 

Anthroposophy. Dr. Adams 40 

Ecclesiology. E. J. Fish, D, D 2.00 

Fisher’s Life among the Clergy 1 25 

Gill’s Analytical Processes 2.00 

Christian Conception 1.00 

Evolution and Progress 1.50 

Holloway’s Life for a Lock 15 

Life of Christ 1.00 

Kiddle’s Spiritual Communications. . . 1.00 

Nisbet’s Resurrection of Body 1.00 

Science and Genesis 1.00 


*^* For sale by all leading Booksellers, < 

W. B. SMITH 


Home Books. 

Complete Cook Book. Mrs. Stuart. 

Best Cook Book published $1.25 

Dr. Wark’s Consumption Cure 80 

How to be Beautiful. Capsadell 25 

How to make Scrap Books .40 

How to prepare Manuscripts 10 

Mystic Key : Amusing Fortune TeUer. .75 
Race for Wealth 59 

Travels and Poetry. 

Aftermath. (Europe.) Buckhout. ..$1.00 

Chilton’s Columbia. (Poems.) 1,00 

Drake’s Dixie. (Illustrated.) 1.50 

Doyle’s Cagliostro. (Poetry.) 1.00 

Gordon’s Colorado 1.00 

Hubner’s Poems I.OO 

Porter’s Valkyria. (Poems.) 1.00 

Sumner’s Poems 4.00 

Educational and Political. 

Colegrove’s English Grammar $1.25 

Enchanted Library — 4 Supplemental 

Readers 8,00 

Pilon’s Demonetization 75 

Roman Catholicism in the United 

States 1.25 

Ryerson’s Individual Rights 25 

Watson’s Republic 1.50 

Spelling Reform 25 

— Universe of Language ..... 1.50 

Juveniles. 

Crawford’s Linda .$1.25 

Dayre’s Wooden Captain. (Illus’d.) .90 

Dolsen’s Cloud Islands. “ .40 

Miller’s Kin-Folk. “ .75 

Sanford’s El-Fay-Gno-Land.' “ .75 

White’s Harry Ascott Abroad 60 

Manuscript Paper. 

For Authors, Clergymen, Editors and 
Teachers. 


No. 1. Per ream $1.25 

No. 2. “ 1.00 


Postage, 50c. extra. Sampie Sheets free, 
r sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by 

CO,, Publishers, 

1 I50NR STREET, NEW YORK* 


& CO.’S 


•• Tickle the public nnd make it Rrin •— 

The more you tickle the more you '11 win | 

Teach the public — you ’ll never grow rich. 

But live like a beggar and die in a ditch.” 

« 

* 

YOUNG DISCIPLE. (In press). Cloth, $1.25. A striking and powerful story 01 
American Life, involving numerous scenes and incidents abounding in Satire and Humor 

I of distinctive American types, comprising the Methods of Instruction in Sabbath ; nd 

. District Schools, Domestic passages at arms between Mr. and Mrs. Babbon, the Ev-u- 

' cation of The Brand begun by Deacon Biggot and continued by Mr. Flinteye, etc. 

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENi E. By Alice IrviNo Abbott. Cloth, $1.25. A 
powerful story with a veiy humorous deliueatiou of Westeru American life, when the 
” Deestrick School Committee,” the village lawyer, butcher, and deacou ruled the 
world. 

r>EACON CRANKY. (The genuine and original Deacon Cranky.) By Geo. Guiry 
Cloth, $1.50. A good Btory with a laughably humorous exposition of a worldly-wise 
New England deacou Avho likes horses, oyster suppers, “ road ” larks, and the man- 
agement of church fairs, — and who follows his likings, and runs a church. 

UOEFENSTEIN. (Satchel Series, No. 36.) By Job C. Abby, of New Orleans 
Tinies-Democrat. 10 cents. Funny Sketches of Holfensteia’s ” tricks of trade,” 
comical stories of frontier life in the Southwest, etc. Hearty laughter throughout. 

(POOPENDYKE. (Satchel Series, No. 35 ; 13y Stanley Hun ley, of B ookbjn 
Eagle. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25 cents. Domestic scenes between Mr. and Mrs. Spoop- 
endyke — a nervous, petulant husband and a patient, unsophisticated wife. Tl-.e Oil 
City Derrick, IhQ funniest p.aper in the United States, pronounces it “ the funniest 
book ever published.” It sold over 310,’»1>0 in seven months. 

TERUSHA’S JIM. (Satchel Series, No. hi) By Mav b.’ONE. 15 cents. The 
comical doings and sayings of a comical country hoy, with a climax which lends a 
touching pathos to a thoroughly inirth-provokiug sto.'y 

THE BEWILDERING WIDOW. (Satchel Series, No. 30.) By Julia E. Dunn. 
40 cents. Story of Manhattan Beach, with comical scenes hetweeu a dashing widow, 
a wealthy gentleman who is deaf, one who stammers badly, a managing mamma with 
marriageable daughters, and a FYcnch valet and his Irish sweetheart in the distance. 

HOW BOB AND I KEPT HOUSE. (Satchel Series, No. 23.) By Bessie Al- 
bert. 10 cents. A laughable and telling satire on pretentious bridal tours and the 
“ swell ” housekeeping of beginners. Very bright. 

OLD NICK’S CAM P-MEETIN’. (Satchel Series, No. 23 ) By Eugene Owl. 60 
cents. Camp-meeting scenes in Texas, with more disasters than conversions, where 
•* M. Satan did not take a hand, but other people did — several, ia f.ict ” 

VIC. (Satchel Series, No. 21.) By A. Benrimo. 26 cents. A gn phic story and hu- 
morous satire on the patent-medicine craze and “shoddy” extravagances. 

POOR TIIEOPHILUS. (Satchel Series, No. 14.) By A Contributor to Puck. 
20 cents. Part II. is a narrative of what happened to a youngster who per- 

sisted in fishing otF the docks, and was taken by a merman down into the comical 
“ City of Fin.” 

OUR PEGGOTTIES. (Satchel Series, No. 11.) By Kesiah Shelton. 20 cents. 
A good-natured exposition of the ridiculous features of the domestic ” Help ” 
problem, with numerous ludicrous scenes. 

NOBODY’S BUSINESS. (Satchel Series, No. 9.) By the Author op “ Dead 
Men’s Shoes,” ETC. 26 cents. Comical mishaps of a family — with a pretty sister 
— struggling to “ keep up appearances,” which the Christian Union says, “ is to the 
reader w.iat a bright, cheery little woman is to the sick-room.” 

APPEAL TO MOODY. (Satchel Series, No. 4.) 10 cents. A satirical hit, in verse, 
on the politicians of Brooklyn and editors of New York dailies, as special subjects 
for Moody and Sankey. 

BONNY EAGLE. (Satchel Series, No. 3.) 20 cents. A vacation sketch, in a light 
v^, with numerous ludicrous incidents humorously narrated. 



o • A 


NT 


j, o « a ^ 


\0 vV *• ' 

V <>* * 





» * * O^ <> ^ 



O 4 ^ 




♦ ^ 


'^c 


♦ A V . 

L.. ''•P °'‘' O ^'‘ J.f* 

0^ fe • !, -» ^ ^ AV 0 ® " ® i* rkV 

O » _r 4 S>r\ /• u 

** * ^ -V ' 

.. ^K ° 

<fw ¥> 

C' ^ ^^6 A. tv' ^ ' 

V *0 ^O 

N - S • • , 

<v 








(*. < 

^ ' 3 ^ ^ ♦ 

• ^ '^cr 

V y ^ 4 ^ ^ 

^ ^ -NJ^- • ^ ^ tv' ^ 4 *' 

... %^-»«»’ V .... 




^-v C\ • o^ ^ s • • > 




* ^ V 



> • » <* A xj^ ^ ^ ^ 

a\ ^ ^ 4 0 O m A ^ ^\. 

*#> /•O^ fe**” *•* O «.<>«<»- y 



. o' 

* A 

♦ 

o « 0 



: ^o ^ : 

0*^ % 



>9- 


' 'iy %• • 



. ,<=.^ "X “ 

* Vy •> 

'V * 


O^ * o hO , V 

Ay •^ " • 

** /C^ * 

■‘' • 



/ V ^ • 




* * 


<> .*•• 


,4 



^ 9 - / 

'^o/ I 

O mO ' *U’ *' » I 1 • A' 

-^6 aO^ *‘^*cf' > V^ S»** 




“ : 

® A ° 

0*- o A < 'T^f* 0^ '^5 - 

r •'’'*♦ ^ A V G ® " ® « ^ ^ 

' t ^ - •% ,«.r>Xv*v it' ^ 






•1 '?^ '. 




o % ^ 

<v_ *»■»’ A°' 


4 

«A 

^ ^ -> ■ V 

O. . 0 ^ ^ «• 

9^ ^ rCC\sC^ o A^ c!^ ♦ 

G ® ** ® ♦ <^*x G ® " ® -» ^ - 




•O' ♦ 



0^ 
p. 

> ■*<» •" 

♦ V / 1 G To ® .0 





A ^ 

1? V 





p O 



<»“ *5^ * ^ ♦* 

". 0^ . 

* -A P>. * 

< V *' o « 0 

A’' > 

** O' V • 

‘ aV-^ ' 

♦ aV 





UBRARY OF CONGRESS 






